


In the End...

by 99bottlestogo (darkside213)



Series: Pendragon Life [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 167,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkside213/pseuds/99bottlestogo
Summary: Jamie Pendragon has done it. She has survived to the seventh year, but things are not as they should be. Dumbledore is dead, war is on the horizon, the happy life she has managed to obtain is threatened. There are two options, run and hide, or follow her best friend Harry Potter on a quest to save the Wizarding World, only question is, are you brave enough to follow her?





	1. Calm Before the Storm

In the End… (Together We Stand Book 7)

 

  They say that a person’s true character is revealed with how they act in true adversity. Seventh Year never looked like it was going to be a good one. There was no home for NEWTs, no looking forward to lazy Sundays lounging by the lake, talking about what careers we were going to get. It was like the entire future was ripped away from us. There was only one inevitability on the horizon— war. The dark times were descending, and there was nothing anyone could do about it except— fight.

 

Chapter 1- Calm Before the Storm

 

  CRACK! The once silent lane is disturbed by the sound of apparation, my apparation to be exact. I chuckle lightly to myself at the pair of disgruntled birds who fly away from the vicinity of me. I have only been here twice before, but I was getting an appreciative feel for the private people who live on Chesser Loan. I had only been to Scotland a few times in my life before, but I could see why people would want to come here, a much different feel from England though still technically in the UK, a world apart though.

  I quietly crunch down the lane taking my time in getting towards the house that I’m looking for. I slowly feel the tension that has rested squarely between my shoulder blades lessen each step I take closer to my destination. As much as I love my family— and I do, they can all get to be a bit much.

  I get to the end of the lane and stop at the gate on the corner. I push open the small gate, which creaks with age. I continue up the slightly clopping lawn until I climb to the small porch on the front of the house. I stop at the door, and knock out a before agreed upon rhythm on the wood. I can hear the sounds of shuffling from inside, and wait for the door to be opened.

  After a minute the door is flung open and standing before me looking like a tempest of beautiful fury is none other than Ariana Dumbledore, my girlfriend. It still quirks a smile to my lips whenever I think of her as such.

  “Well don’t just stand there, get in here before anyone notices.” Ariana huffs. My smile drops quickly and I slide past her into the house before she shuts the door and arms the house again with a quick protective spell. I clasp my hands behind me still much to off put to be here even when this is not my first time here.

  When I was younger I had always assumed that McGonagall had just lived at the castle like I had assumed most professors did. Being in her home feels like I’m intruding on something private, even though she told me weeks ago that there was nothing for me to worry about, that I was welcome here anytime.

  “Are you okay Ari? I got your owl. You seemed distressed.” I say glancing at the girl who has gone back to looking extremely agitated.

  “No I’m not okay. I have a serious bone to pick with Hermione.” She growls storming into the living room. I follow behind her unsure exactly how to deal with this new information. After Professor Dumbledore’s death Ariana had been near inconsolable for two weeks. Then its like the switch flipped in her, and we’ve all been dealing with this fiery anger ever since.

  “What has Hermione done?” I ask, feeling so lost already and only at the beginning of the discussion.

  “She didn’t squash Skeeter when she had the chance. I always knew she was a cockroach, but I didn’t realize how fitting that really was.” She says flinging herself back down on the overstuffed green couch, and pulling the red tartan blanket off the back of it around herself like a shield.

  I know what this is about. I make my way over to her, and sink down next to her grabbing the Prophet off of the table in front of her.

  Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller headline is set over a picture of Dumbledore striding along looking harried:

 

DUMBLEDORE — THE TRUTH AT LAST?

 

Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed genius considered by many to be the greatest wizard of his generation. Stripping away the popular image of serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter reveals the disturbed childhood, the lawless youth, the lifelong feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore carried to his grave. WHY was the man tipped to be Minister of Magic content to remain a mere headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of the secret organization known as the Order of the Phoenix? HOW did Dumbledore really meet his end?

  The answers to these and many more questions are explored in the explosive new biography, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter, exclusively interviewed by Betty Braithwaite, page 13, inside.

 

   Sighing I open up the paper to the proper pages. It is a miracle if I actually get to read the paper at home since there are so many bodies curious about what is or isn’t being said about the going’s on in the world. Usually by the time that I get it, its lining the bottom of an owl cage, virtually unrecognizable, so I’ve taken to reading my news over people’s shoulders or not at all. I find the article, and steel myself for something that I most likely won’t like.

 

  In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer than her famously ferocious quill-portraits might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy home, she leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake and, it goes without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip.

  “Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer’s dream,” says Skeeter. “Such a long, full life. I’m sure my book will be the first of very, very many.”

Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-hundred-page book was completed a mere four weeks after Dumbledore’s mysterious death in June. I ask her how she managed this superfast feat.

  “Oh, when you’ve been a journalist as long as I have, working to a deadline is second nature. I knew that the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story and I wanted to be the first to meet that need.”

  I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore’s, that “Skeeter’s book contains less fact than a Chocolate Frog card.”

  Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.

  “Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few years back about merpeople rights, bless him. Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me to watch out for trout.”

  And yet Elphias Doge’s accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many places. Does Skeeter really feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain a full picture of Dumbledore’s long and extraordinary life?

  “Oh, my dear,” beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles, “you know as well as I do how much information can be generated by a fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to hear the word ‘no,’ and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People were queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone thought he was so wonderful, you know — he trod on an awful lot of important toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I’ve had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for, one who has never spoken in public before and who was close to Dumbledore during the most turbulent and disturbing phase of his youth.”

  The advance publicity for Skeeter’s biography has certainly suggested that there will be shocks in store for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask?

  “Now, come off it, Betty, I’m not giving away all the highlights before anybody’s bought the book!” laughs Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a rude awakening! Let’s just say that nobody hearing him rage against You-Know-Who would have dreamed that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a wizard who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he wasn’t exactly broad-minded when he was younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up.”

  I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, whose conviction by the Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor scandal fifteen years ago.

  “Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap,” laughs Skeeter. “No, no, I’m talking about much worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats, worse even than the Muggle-maiming father — Dumbledore couldn’t keep either of them quiet anyway, they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it’s the mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a positive nest of nastiness — but, as I say, you’ll have to wait for chapters nine to twelve for full details. All I can say now is, it’s no wonder Dumbledore never talked about how his nose got broken.”

  Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny the brilliance that led to Dumbledore’s many magical discoveries?

  “He had brains,” she concedes, “although many now question whether he could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in chapter sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of dragon’s blood when Dumbledore ‘borrowed’ his papers.”

  But the importance of some of Dumbledore’s achievements cannot, I venture, be denied. What of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?

  “Oh, now, I’m glad you mentioned Grindelwald,” says Skeeter with a tantalizing smile. “I’m afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore’s spectacular victory must brace themselves for a bombshell — or perhaps a Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed. All I’ll say is, don’t be so sure that there really was the spectacular duel of legend. After they’ve read my book, people may be forced to conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief from the end of his wand and came quietly!”

  Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this intriguing subject, so we turn instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers more than any other.

  “Oh yes,” says Skeeter, nodding briskly, “I devote an entire chapter to the whole Potter–Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister. Again, your readers will have to buy my book for the whole story, but there is no question that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go. Whether that was really in the boy’s best interests — well, we’ll see. It’s certainly an open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence.”

  I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry Potter, whom she so famously interviewed last year: a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.

  “Oh, yes, we’ve developed a close bond,” says Skeeter. “Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life — the Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of the only people alive who can say that they know the real Harry Potter.”

  Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still circulating about Dumbledore’s final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?

  “Well, I don’t want to say too much — it’s all in the book — but eyewitnesses inside Hogwarts castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the Wizarding community to decide — once they’ve read my book.”

  On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore’s legions of admirers, meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.

 

  “This is Skeeter we’re talking about. You can take anything that she says with a grain of salt.” I attempt to reason with her, even though my blood is at a low simmer now.

  “I know that but there are enough daft— idiotic people out there in the world who would and do believe the garbage that she spews. Its not fair Jamie! My grandfather was a good man— and even good men can have flaws, and she’s going to vilify him for being nothing more than human.” Ariana cries throwing the teacup that she was drinking from across the room. It shatters against the warm brown wall, and I cringe.

  “I know that Ari, I truly do. I’m sorry that this is happening, but there’s nothing that we can do but tell the truth to as many people as we can. Hermione isn’t to blame for Skeeter doing this— besides would you want Hermione to be responsible for killing a woman… ending a life?” I ask her softly.

  Ariana sighs heavily and deflates back into the couch looking extremely defeated— something that I hate seeing, but am growing used to viewing. I get up from the couch and walk over to the broken cup pieces, waving my wand to repair them. I have to admit that life is so much easier now that I can do magic outside of school.

  “I know. I’m sorry for that— it just hurts that now that he’s no longer— here that everyone feels the needs to come out and comment about what he was like when they didn’t even know him themselves!” She says. I nod my head sympathetically, and place the cup back on the table.

  “I get it you know. People have always thought that it was there place to discuss my family. We’ve been around since Arthur and Merlin for crying out loud, and people love a scandal. You’ve seen what they’ve said about my family and Augustus. They practically make a farce out of quarreling familial old blood. It’s my family, and my story that they’re making a mockery of, but I can’t come out and just bash them for it, I have to be proper.” I say, not even noticing that by this time my entire left arm is encased in happily licking blue flames.

  Ariana jumps up from the couch, and puts her hand on my cheek. I startle back into the present at the feel of her cool hand on my warm cheek. “You need to stop getting so worked up Jame, one of these days you’re liable to burn down the house, and I don’t want to see you hurting yourself.” She huffs, giving me one of her cuter grumpy pouts.   
  I can’t help the wry smile that comes to my lips. “Says the pot to the kettle. You should take some of your own advice love.” I say softly pressing my lips to hers in a gentle kiss. Ariana melts into the kiss with a sigh of relaxation.

  “I just hate this. Everything is changing, and there’s no going back. I’m going to lose you soon, and who’s going to take care of you then?” She mutters burrowing into my neck. I wrap my arms around her, and feel a shiver run through me at the press of her lips on my neck.

  “I’ll be safe. I have the others there with me. I don’t think that Harry or Hermione would let anything happen to me if they could help it. Ron kinda has to protect me for Mum would skin his behind if she found out that he let me get hurt.” I chuckle, and grin when I feel the soft laughter coming from my girlfriend.

  “I could see that.” Ariana says softly. We stay like that in content silence for a while. “You know, Mama Weasley is not going to be pleased when you all disappear. You’re her babies and she’s not going to be happy that she won’t be able to protect you anymore.” She says.

  “Well we’re seventeen now. Technically we’re adults and can do whatever we please. How do you think I got here?” I admit. Ariana pulls away from me with a stern look on her face.

  “You didn’t let anyone know where you were going?” She demands. I shake my head.

  “Do I look stupid to you? Of course I let someone know. Besides its not like they couldn’t tell where I was by just looking at that ruddy clock. Mum has been carrying it around everywhere muttering about the state of the world these days.” I say, running my hand through my hair, trying to relieve the stress that’s beginning to creep back.

  “Good. I quite like you the way that you are. Relationships between ghosts and mortals have never ended well.” Ariana says pulling away from me completely and walking over to the fireplace. I follow behind her and look at what she’s staring at. It’s the same thing that has fascinated her since she moved here.

  On the mantle piece are a series of photographs. The same few people are depicted in each one. There’s one of an obviously younger McGonagall standing arm in arm with a very handsome man with a very well groomed beard. His dark eyes are shining, and there’s an almost stupefied look on his face as he gazes lovingly at McGonagall, who is blushing very prettily I might add.

  The next photo shows the same couple a little bit older and perched in the man’s arms is a little baby girl in a flowing white christening dress. The baby looks to be making happy gurgling noises, and the man looks like he’s practically bursting with pride. McGonagall has her hand on her daughter’s head, and is gazing at the pair of them lovingly.

  The next photograph is of the couple again, this time with a small brunette toddler standing between them, looking like the parents are supporting her. The next few pictures are of the family with an ever growing girl. She has long pretty dark hair, big brown doe eyes that are found on the girl standing next to me, and a mischievous smile that spells trouble.

  Sadly the man in the pictures disappears around the time the girl looks like she’s in her late teens. The smiles on McGonagall and the girl’s faces are a bit sadder, but they’re not entirely wiped out. That’s when photographs of a new man come in. Pictures of the dark haired girl with a handsome blond haired blue-eyed man pop up. The pair looks ridiculously in love, and in one of the frames a proud watery eyed McGonagall stands behind them, the pair of them adorned in dress robes and a dress.

  In the last photograph on the mantle has the blond man and the dark haired girl (now a woman) sitting in the grass together, and propped in her arms is a small baby with wispy blond hair on her head, and identical big brown eyes as her mother.

  “I still can’t believe that they kept this from me.” Ariana says with a bittersweet smile on her face. I reach for her hand and tangle our fingers together maybe more so for me than for her.

  “I’m sure they were only trying to protect you.” I say softly. Ariana sends me a sad look, and nods her head.

  “I know, but there’s a fine line between protection and negligence. See there, that’s Aidan, he was Minerva’s husband. They were together for thirty years before he died and she never loved another man. He’s my grandfather, and she’s my grandmother. That girl in the pictures… her name is Mira. She’s my mother, and the blond man is my father. How could they… I should have known. I had this connection to my mother all this time, and I didn’t even realize it.” She says with a small sob.

  I pull her close to me, and she rests her head on my shoulder. We turn our attention to the shelf next to the mantle and see that the entire shelf is dedicated to the small blond baby— to Ariana. Various pictures of her from all ages even through Hogwarts sit on that shelf.

  “She loves you. They all loved you.” I tell her giving her a squeeze.

  “I know.” Is all she says. We stand like that for a little while longer, before I sigh.

  “What time is it?” I ask her, hating to disturb this moment. I know that its going to take a lot long, and a lot more than some nicely dressed up words to make her feel better.

  “Quarter after four.” She murmurs almost sadly. I frown, realizing that I have to be getting back soon, for my own previously scheduled hell.

  “I hate to leave, but if I’m not there for this forsaken fitting, then I’m sure that it will be my head on a platter.” I say shivering. If you thought that the fighting between Fleur and Mum was bad before, having them actually getting along is eighty times worse. When the two of them are mad about something wedding related everyone suffers.

  “Go. I’ll be fine. Minerva is coming back soon anyway.” Ariana says pulling me in for another lasting kiss. I’m the one to melt into her this time.

  “I really don’t want to go.” I tell her. She nods her head.

  “I know but you have to.” She walks me to the door and we kiss again almost a little desperately this time. “Here take this, you may as well at least have one good thing to remember grandfather by.”

  She hands me another section of an older Daily Prophet. I nod my head in thanks, and slowly depart from the house, feeling sad as the door closes behind me. I make it back to the safe point of apparation, and soon the world realigns itself to show my home full to busting, and loud as ever.

 

 

  That night after a thoroughly exhausting evening I lay down on my bunk and pull out the article that she gave me.

 

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED

by Elphias Doge

 

  I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our first day at Hogwarts. Our mutual attraction was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon pox shortly before arriving at school, and while I was no longer contagious, my pockmarked visage and greenish hue did not encourage many to approach me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a year previously, his father, Percival, had been convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon three young Muggles.

  Albus never attempted to deny that his father (who was to die in Azkaban) had committed this crime; on the contrary, when I plucked up courage to ask him, he assured me that he knew his father to be guilty. Beyond that, Dumbledore refused to speak of the sad business, though many attempted to make him do so. Some, indeed, were disposed to praise his father’s action and assumed that Albus too was a Muggle-hater. They could not have been more mistaken: As anybody who knew Albus would attest, he never revealed the remotest anti-Muggle tendency. Indeed, his determined support for Muggle rights gained him many enemies in subsequent years.

  In a matter of months, however, Albus’s own fame had begun to eclipse that of his father. By the end of his first year he would never again be known as the son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing more or less than the most brilliant student ever seen at the school. Those of us who were privileged to be his friends benefited from his example, not to mention his help and encouragement, with which he was always generous. He confessed to me in later life that he knew even then that his greatest pleasure lay in teaching.

  He not only won every prize of note that the school offered, he was soon in regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day, including Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda Bagshot, the noted historian; and Adalbert Waffling, the magical theoretician. Several of his papers found their way into learned publications such as Transfiguration Today, Challenges in Charming, and The Practical Potioneer. Dumbledore’s future career seemed likely to be meteoric, and the only question that remained was when he would become Minister of Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years that he was on the point of taking the job, however, he never had Ministerial ambitions.

  Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus’s brother, Aberforth, arrived at school. They were not alike; Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike Albus, preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than through reasoned discussion. However, it is quite wrong to suggest, as some have, that the brothers were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as two such different boys could do. In fairness to Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in Albus’s shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. Being continually outshone was an occupational hazard of being his friend and cannot have been any more pleasurable as a brother.

  When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended to take the then-traditional tour of the world together, visiting and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our separate careers. However, tragedy intervened. On the very eve of our trip, Albus’s mother, Kendra, died, leaving Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the family. I postponed my departure long enough to pay my respects at Kendra’s funeral, then left for what was now to be a solitary journey. With a younger brother and sister to care for, and little gold left to them, there could no longer be any question of Albus accompanying me.

  That was the period of our lives when we had least contact. I wrote to Albus, describing, perhaps insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from narrow escapes from chimaeras in Greece to the experiments of the Egyptian alchemists. His letters told me little of his day-to-day life, which I guessed to be frustratingly dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own experiences, it was with horror that I heard, toward the end of my year’s travels, that yet another tragedy had struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister, Ariana.

  Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her brothers. All those closest to Albus — and I count myself one of that lucky number — agree that Ariana’s death, and Albus’s feeling of personal responsibility for it (though, of course, he was guiltless), left their mark upon him forevermore.

  I returned home to find a young man who had experienced a much older person’s suffering. Albus was more reserved than before, and much less lighthearted. To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed closeness between Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In time this would lift — in later years they reestablished, if not a close relationship, then certainly a cordial one.) However, he rarely spoke of his parents or of Ariana from then on, and his friends learned not to mention them.

  Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following years. Dumbledore’s innumerable contributions to the store of Wizarding knowledge, including his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, will benefit generations to come, as will the wisdom he displayed in the many judgments he made while Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel ever matched that between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945. Those who witnessed it have written of the terror and the awe they felt as they watched these two extraordinary wizards do battle. Dumbledore’s triumph, and its consequences for the Wizarding world, are considered a turning point in magical history to match the introduction of the International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

  Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could find something to value in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe that his early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I should say that one of his greatest achievements was raising his granddaughter into the lovely young woman she is today, after the unfortunate death of his son and daughter-in-law. I shall miss his friendship more than I can say, but my loss is as nothing compared to the Wizarding world’s. That he was the most inspiring and the best loved of all Hogwarts headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he lived: working always for the greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small boy with dragon pox as he was on the day that I met him.

 

  I lay the paper down on my stomach and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes fully taking in what I had just read. Yes that’s a far more fitting tribute to a man who had given so much for everyone else, and had raised the girl dearest to me. I carefully fold the paper and tuck it away under my mattress for later.

  My one hope is though to never have to read another one of those articles for the people that I love.


	2. Flight of the Eight Potters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except for Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 2- Flight of the Eight Potters

                                                                                

  When the day came to go and get Harry from his personal hell at Privet Drive, Mum was in a right state. Not only were Ron, Luka, and I going, but Dad was coming along as well. Not to mention that Fred and George were going to meet us at the house along with Bill and Fleur. I think that it makes her faint of heart at the fact that she could lose seven people in her family in one fell swoop.

  Ginny was furious when Mum had put her foot down and said that she wasn’t to go and help with the mission. “Everyone else is of age. You are still sixteen young lady, and I am your mother, so you will not be going.” She growls.

  “But that’s not—” Ginny protests.

  “I don’t care if its not fair, that’s life and that’s how its going to go. I don’t know what’s wrong with you people Harry needs to get out of there safely but I don’t need everyone in my family so willing to march straight off into danger.” Mum snaps making us all back off because of how frazzled she is.

  Ginny had gone off to sulk after that. She has been in a bad mood pretty much all summer because while she understands why Harry broke up with her, that doesn’t mean that she has to like it. She’s snapped at me a lot since I still have my girlfriend and relationship despite everything.

  Luka tells me that eventually this too shall pass, but honestly the clock is ticking down for me on the summer with time that I have left to be with my family before shit hits the proverbial fan, and life becomes infinitely harder.

  Usually the Burrow is bursting with sound and activity but today is different. There is a thick nervous tension in the air, as we wait for the last two people to show up, so that we can make our way over to Little Whinging. My knee keeps bouncing at a nervous pace.

  “Stop it.” Luka grumbles clamping his hand down on my leg, only for the other one to start bouncing.

  “I can’t help it. This is our first mission with the Order. I don’t want to screw it up… Harry’s too important for that.” I tell him. Luka nods his head grimly, adjusting his new glasses on the bridge of his nose.

  “I just can’t wait till Harry’s rid of that place.” Ron says. Ginny nods her head while chewing on her lip. She only ever does that when she’s nervous.

  “We’ll take care of him.” I promise her. Ginny snaps her gaze up to me, and nods her head grimly.

  “I never doubted that.” She says softly. I give her a grim smile, and jump to my feet at the sound of two almost consecutive CRACKs. Hurriedly we push our way out to the yard with Mum and Dad following behind us to see Hermione and Ariana embracing each other.

  When they release each other, Hermione takes turns giving hugs to everyone else. Mum gets a chance to fuss over her for a few minutes before Dad snaps his watch shut and tell us that we better get a move on. Almost instantly the atmosphere gets grimmer.

  The last I see of home are the grim faces of my mother and sister, watching as the seven of us disappate, leaving the safety of the Burrow behind.

 

* * *

 

 

  We honestly must look like quite the odd crew standing outside of Number 4 Privet Drive. In a place that’s surrounded by so many identical looking houses, the sheer variety of the sixteen of us standing there hoping to get inside must be amusing to most, but to these people I suspect that they would somehow find it rather alarming.

  The door is thrown open, and I’m glad to see my best friend unharmed and well. Harry looks utmost excited to see all of us here to come and spring him from this place so that he can be back where he belongs in the Wizarding world.

  There is a general cry of greeting as Hermione flings her arms around him, with Ariana and me following shortly after, Ron claps him on the back, and Luka does a half salute, and Hagrid says, “All righ’, Harry? Ready fer the off?”

  “Definitely,” says Harry, beaming around at us all. “But I wasn’t expecting this many of you!”

  “Change of plan,” growls Mad-Eye, who is holding two enormous, bulging sacks, and whose magical eye is spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. “Let’s get undercover before we talk you through it.”

  Harry leads us all back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, we settle on chairs, sit ourselves upon Harry’s Aunt Petunia’s gleaming work surfaces, or lean up against her spotless appliances.

  All together there’s Ron, Hermione, Luka, Ariana, Fred, George, Bill, Dad, Mad-Eye, Tonks, Lupin, Fleur, Kingsley, Hagrid, and Mundungus. Together all of us are here to make sure that Harry gets safely out of this house and to the Burrow. Seems easy enough in theory, but put into practice it all gets a lot more complicated and harder.

  Ariana slips her hand into mine and gives in an encouraging squeeze. I think that she still fears whether or not I’m ready to be a part of something like this. She’s been worried about me ever since the battle at the Ministry, but I honestly feel like I’m starting to get a better grip on myself and my feelings about what’s going on.

  “Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister?” Harry calls across the room.

  “He can get along without me for one night,” says Kingsley. “You’re more important.”

  “Harry, guess what?” says Tonks from her perch on top of the washing machine, and she wiggles her left hand at him; a ring glitters there.

  “You got married?” Harry yelps, looking from her to Lupin.

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, Harry, it was very quiet.”

  “That’s brilliant, congrat —”

  “All right, all right, we’ll have time for a cozy catch-up later!” roars Moody over the hubbub, and silence falls in the kitchen. Moody drops his sacks at his feet and turns to Harry. “As Dedalus probably told you, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He’s made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. All done in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother’s charm does that already. What he’s really done is to stop you getting out of here safely.

  “Second problem: You’re underage, which means you’ve still got the Trace on you.”

  “I don’t —”

  “The Trace, the Trace!” says Mad-Eye impatiently. “The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters.

  “We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you’ll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short: Pius Thicknesse thinks he’s got you cornered good and proper.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Harry asks, looking perplexed and more than a little worried.

  “Well blimey Harry we didn’t all come here just to tell you that you weren’t getting out.” I say, with a grim grin.

  “What she said.” Fred and George chorus at him, grinning at me like crazy. Merlin have I missed my brothers.

  “We’re going to use the only means of transport left to us, the only ones the Trace can’t detect, because we don’t need to cast spells to use them: brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid’s motorbike.” Mad-Eye jumps in, glaring at the three of us, for making unnecessary conversation.

 “Now, your mother’s charm will only break under two conditions: when you come of age, or” — Moody gestures around the pristine kitchen — “you no longer call this place home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full understanding that you’re never going to live together again, correct?”

  Harry nods.

  “So this time, when you leave, there’ll be no going back, and the charm will break the moment you get outside its range. We’re choosing to break it early, because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment you turn seventeen.

  “The one thing we’ve got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn’t know we’re moving you tonight. We’ve leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: They think you’re not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we’re dealing with, so we can’t just rely on him getting the date wrong; he’s bound to have a couple of Death Eaters patrolling the skies in this general area, just in case. So, we’ve given a dozen different houses every protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we’re going to hide you, they’ve all got some connection with the Order: my house, Kingsley’s place, Molly’s Auntie Muriel’s — you get the idea.”

  “Yeah,” says Harry, still not looking like he likes this plan.

  “You’ll be going to Tonks’s parents. Once you’re within the boundaries of the protective enchantments we’ve put on their house, you’ll be able to use a Portkey to the Burrow. Any questions?”

  “Er — yes,” says Harry. “Maybe they won’t know which of the twelve secure houses I’m heading for at first, but won’t it be sort of obvious once” — he performs a quick headcount — “seventeen of us fly off toward Tonks’s parents’?”

“Ah,” says Moody, “I forgot to mention the key point. Seventeen of us won’t be flying to Tonks’s parents’. There will be eight Harry Potters moving through the skies tonight, each of them with a companion, each pair heading for a different safe house.”

  “There’ll still be one left over.” I murmur. Ariana squeezes my hand tighter, keeping her gaze on Mad-Eye.

  From inside his cloak Moody now withdraws a flask of what looks like mud. There is no need for him to say another word; Harry understands the rest of the plan immediately.

  “No!” he says loudly, his voice ringing through the kitchen. “No way!”

  “I told them you’d take it like this,” says Hermione with a hint of complacency.

  “If you think I’m going to let seven people risk their lives — !”

  “— because it’s the first time for all of us,” says Ron.

  “This is different, pretending to be me —”

  “Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry,” says Fred earnestly. “Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever.”

  Harry does not smile.

  “You can’t do it if I don’t cooperate, you need me to give you some hair.”

  “Come on Harry this is the best way.” I plead with him.

  “Well, that’s that plan scuppered,” says George. “Obviously there’s no chance at all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate.”

  “Yeah, sixteen of us against one bloke who’s not allowed to use magic; we’ve got no chance,” says Fred.

  “Funny,” says Harry, “really amusing.”

  “If it has to come to force, then it will,” growls Moody, his magical eye now quivering a little in its socket as he glares at Harry. “Everyone here’s overage, Potter, and they’re all prepared to take the risk.”

  Mundungus shrugs and grimaces; the magical eye swerves sideways to glare at him out of the side of Moody’s head. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing it.

  “Let’s have no more arguments. Time’s wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, boy, now.”

  “But this is mad, there’s no need —”

  “No need!” snarls Moody. “With You-Know-Who out there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if we’re lucky he’ll have swallowed the fake bait and he’ll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he’d be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping an eye out, it’s what I’d do. They might not be able to get at you or this house while your mother’s charm holds, but it’s about to break and they know the rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even You-Know-Who can’t split himself into eight.”

  “That would be one hell of a nasty party trick.” I mutter, wincing at the smack that Ariana delivers to my stomach.

  “Serves you right.” Luka mutters from my other side.

  Harry catches Hermione’s eye and looks away at once.

  “So, Potter — some of your hair, if you please.”

  Harry glances at Ron, who grimaces at him in a just-do-it sort of way, when his gaze lands on me, I shoot him pleading eyes, and a shrug.

  “Now!” barks Moody.

  With all of our eyes upon him, Harry reaches up to the top of his head, grabs a hank of hair, and pulls.

  “Good,” says Moody, limping forward as he pulls the stopper out of the flask of potion. “Straight in here, if you please.”

  Harry drops the hair into the mudlike liquid. The moment it makes contact with its surface, the potion begins to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it turns a clear, bright gold.

  “Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry,” says Hermione, before catching sight of Ron’s raised eyebrows and my bemused smirk, blushing slightly, and saying, “Oh, you know what I mean — Goyle’s potion looked like bogies.”

  “I still can’t believe the three of you actually tried it.” I say with a grimace.

  “Right then, fake Potters line up over here, please,” says Moody. Ariana gives my hand one last squeeze before walking over to Moody.

  Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Ariana, and Fleur line up in front of Aunt Petunia’s gleaming sink.

  “We’re one short,” says Lupin.

  “Here,” says Hagrid gruffly, and he lifts Mundungus by the scruff of the neck and drops him down beside Fleur, who wrinkles her nose pointedly and moves along to stand between Fred and George instead.

  “I’ve toldjer, I’d sooner be a protector,” says Mundungus.

  “Shut it.” Growls Moody.

  “You’re not joining them as well?” Harry says looking between Luka and me.

  “Mad-Eye said no.” I say simply.

  “Someone’s got to look out for the Harry army.” Luka grins.

  “As I’ve already told you, you spineless worm, any Death Eaters we run into will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him. Dumbledore always said You-Know-Who would want to finish Potter in person. It’ll be the protectors who have got the most to worry about, the Death Eaters’ll want to kill them.” Mad-Eye finishes with Mundungus.

  Mundungus does not look particularly reassured, but Moody is already pulling seven eggcup-sized glasses from inside his cloak, which he hands out, before pouring a little Polyjuice Potion into each one.

  “Altogether, then . . .”

  “I’m not sure I can watch…” I grimace, though not taking my eyes off my girlfriend.

  Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Ariana, Fleur, and Mundungus drink. All of them gasp and grimace as the potion hits their throats: At once, their features begin to bubble and distort like hot wax. Hermione and Mundungus are shooting upward; Ron, Fred, and George are shrinking; their hair is darkening, Hermione’s, Ariana’s , and Fleur’s appearing to shoot backwards into their skulls.

  I’m not sure how I’ll ever feel about the sight of my beautiful girlfriend turning into one of my best friends.

  “You’re lucky I love you Potter.” I say anxiously.

  Moody, quite unconcerned, is now loosening the ties of the large sacks he has brought with him. When he straightens up again, there are seven Harry Potters gasping and panting in front of him.

  Fred and George turn to each other and say together, “Wow — we’re identical!”

  “I dunno, though, I think I’m still better-looking,” says Fred, examining his reflection in the kettle.

  “Bah,” says Fleur, checking herself in the microwave door, “Bill, don’t look at me — I’m ’ideous.”

  “Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I’ve got smaller here,” says Moody, indicating the first sack, “and vice versa. Don’t forget the glasses, there’s seven pairs in the side pocket. And when you’re dressed, there’s luggage in the other sack.”

  I watch as Harry’s seven doppelgangers rummage in the sacks, pulling out sets of clothes, putting on glasses, stuffing their own things away.

  “I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo,” says Ron, looking down at his bare chest.

  “Harry, your eyesight really is awful,” says Hermione, as she puts on glasses.

  “Well now I can cross off my childhood fantasy of being a boy. Its not all its cracked up to be.” Ariana says.

  “I should hope not.” I chuckle still tracking the Harry that I know to be my girlfriend somewhere in there.

  “This is just too weird.” Luka mutters from beside me.

  “You’re telling me.” I agree nodding my head.

  Once dressed, the fake Harrys take rucksacks and owl cages, each containing a stuffed snowy owl, from the second sack.

  “Good,” says Moody, as at last eight dressed, bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys face him. “The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be traveling with me, by broom —”

  “Why’m I with you?” grunts the Harry nearest the back door.

  “Because you’re the one that needs watching, Miss Pendragon will be covering you as well,” growls Moody, and sure enough, his magical eye does not waver from Mundungus as he continues, “Arthur and Fred —”

  “I’m George,” says the twin at whom Moody is pointing. “Can’t you even tell us apart when we’re Harry?”

  “Sorry, George —”

  “I’m only yanking your wand, I’m Fred really —”

  “Enough messing around!” snarls Moody. “The other one — George or Fred or whoever you are — you’re with Remus. Miss Delacour —”

  “I’m taking Fleur on a thestral,” says Bill. “She’s not that fond of brooms.”

  Fleur walks over to stand beside him, giving him a soppy, slavish look.

 “Mr. Pendragon and Miss Dumbledore by broom; Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral —”

  Hermione looks reassured as she answers Kingsley’s smile; I know that Hermione too lacks confidence on a broomstick.

  “Which leaves you and me, Ron!” says Tonks brightly, knocking over a mug tree as she waves at him.

  Ron does not look quite as pleased as Hermione. I turn to my brother and give him a stern look.

  “You better not let anything happen to the pair of you.” I say. Luka rolls his eyes, and Ariana smiles at me with Harry’s smile.

  “I don’t know, it seems like you’re always the one that we’re having to worry about.” Luka says with a grim smile.

  “Guess we’ll just have to find out. Stay safe.” I say hugging the pair of them at the same time. Let me just take a moment to say that its really weird to be hugging your best friend, and having that person actually be your girlfriend.

  “An’ you’re with me, Harry. That all righ’?” says Hagrid, looking a little anxious. “We’ll be on the bike, brooms an’ thestrals can’t take me weight, see. Not a lot o’ room on the seat with me on it, though, so you’ll be in the sidecar.”

  “That’s great,” says Harry, looking not too pleased.

  “We think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a broom,” says Moody, who seems to guess how Harry is feeling. “Snape’s had plenty of time to tell them everything about you he’s never mentioned before, so if we do run into any Death Eaters, we’re betting they’ll choose one of the Potters who look at home on a broomstick. All right then,” he goes on, tying up the sack with the fake Potters’ clothes in it and leading the way back to the door, “I make it three minutes until we’re supposed to leave. No point locking the back door, it won’t keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking. . . . Come on. . . .”

  Harry rushes to grab his stuff and get situated in the sidecar while the rest of us grab brooms and mount Thestrals. I straddle my brooms looking around at everyone, anxious about what’s about to happen. Moody and Mundungus are straddling a broom beside me.

  “All right then,” says Moody. “Everyone ready, please; I want us all to leave at exactly the same time or the whole point of the diversion’s lost.”

  The rest mount their brooms.

  “Hold tight now, Ron,” says Tonks, and I see Ron throw a furtive, guilty look at Lupin before placing his hands on either side of her waist. Hagrid kicks the motorbike into life: It roars like a dragon. I steal one last glance at Luka and Ariana and see her gripping him tightly.

  “Good luck, everyone,” shouts Moody. “See you all in about an hour at the Burrow. On the count of three. One . . . two . . . THREE.”

  I kick off the ground in sync with Mad-Eye making sure to keep him in my sight and no further than five feet away from me. It’s a big mass of jumble take offs but everyone gets into the air at the same time, and we gain altitude quickly splitting off into groups. Moody points us North and I make sure to try and scan the dark skies surrounding us.

  Something feels off, horribly so. And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, we are surrounded. At least thirty hooded figures, suspended in midair, form a vast circle in the midst of which the Order members have risen and began to fly, oblivious —

  Screams, a blaze of green light on every side and, I’m jerking my broom to the left of a curse that just barely went wide around me. “Prepare yourself!” Moody roars over the yells and cries of fighting. I get my wand out of its holster on my thigh and take up a flanking position on Moody and Mndungus.

  Okay, this is just like a big game of Quidditch— a scary life ending game, but a game all the same. You’re good at this, you feel at home on a broom. Suddenly a dark shape materializes on your right side, without thinking I raise my wand and fire; “Stupefy!” I shout.

  The jet of light hits the Death Eater center mass and I watch as he starts plummeting out of the sky. I try not to dwell on the fact that I very well may have sent someone to their death. Mad-Eye and Mundungus are performing some great feats of aerial maneuvering, but its not enough there are more curses and figures ever coming.

  I keep dodging and firing spells off on my own, when the air around us suddenly bleeds the little warmth that it had before. Goosebumps break out across my flesh and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There in front of us cutting off our path to freedom is Voldemort.

  His face is chalk white, eyes red slits that burn into your very soul, and two slits where his nose should be. My wand is shaking in my hand, but I try to steel myself. I can do this. I can’t let him get to Harry! I can’t let him down!

  Mundungus has other ideas. With a rather undignified squeak, there’s a loud CRACK as he disapparates right there. The sudden lack of weight on the broom pitches Moody forward slightly, and before I know it, Voldemort has his wand raised. “AVADA KEDAVRA!” He shouts.

  A bolt of green light shoots out from his wand hitting Mad-Eye straight in the head. He sat there frozen for a minute, before tipping over the side of his broom, and the pair of them go tumbling to the earth. “No!” I scream angling my broom downwards narrowly missing my head.

  Heart beating wildly in my chest I switch to evasive maneuvers to try and get away safely. I can’t let my mind think about what just happened.

  I sweep to the side of a volley of what I know to be killing curses, my heart fully jammed in my throat. By some sheer dumb luck I’m able to cast and avoid curses for a few more minutes until I come to a shattering stop. A curse hits the handle of my broomstick and the impact of the spell causes my Firebolt to give a mighty creak before splintering into pieces.

  There’s a quick flash of pain before I begin to plummet to the ground. I have had my fair share of falls from playing Quidditch, but usually my broom is still whole and I’m usually passed out from a bludger at this point. Just the image of the ground getting bigger and closer to you as you rocket down towards it is enough to rip a cry out of me.

  Tears start streaming out of my eyes by the speed in which I’m falling. Knowing that I was going to die any second, I let my mind flood with pictures of Ariana, wanting to have her be the last thing on my mind before I die. That’s when a great back shadow swoops down below me, and before I can keep plummeting to my death, a strong arm reaches out and catches me by my arm, the force of it enough to dislocate my shoulder with a loud sickening pop.

  For a moment I don’t even realize that I’ve stopped falling, until a voice comes through.

  “She looks ‘etrified Bill.” Fleur’s distinct voice cuts through my panicked fog.

  “Shit Jamie— Jame? Are you okay?” Bill says carefully, and excruciatingly hauling me up onto the Thestral with them. I gulp getting my first look at the giant skeletal black horse.

  I turn my gaze up to my eldest brother and let out probably the shakiest nod I’ve ever given someone. The brief rest doesn’t last long for quickly we’re lurched to the right, and Bill is positioning me properly onto the horse behind Fleur and in front of him.

  Unfortunately the Death Eaters have found us, and I’m forced to pull myself out of my newly traumatized state in order to help defend us. Flashes of Mad-Eye’s death and my fall keep shooting across my vision, trying to distract me, but I hold firm not wanting to be the reason that we die on this supposedly easy mission, that’s already claimed one life tonight.

  “We’ve missed the port-key we’re going to have to make it back.” Bill says, and I grit my teeth in distress. This is not going to be pleasant at all. It takes another daring, terrifying, and beyond stressful forty-five minutes, but we manage to lose our Death Eater tails and make it to the Burrow.

  I have never been happier to see home before in my entire life. The Thestral comes to a bumpy stop, and Bill and Fleur slide off, helping me get down after them. As soon as I put weight on my right leg though, it buckles, and Fleur is quick to grab me under the arm, to keep me upright.

  I look up to see Molly running at us with a happy expression on her face which turns to worry when Bill only gives her a half hug, and she gets a look of me.

  Suddenly Fleur is letting me go and familiar arms are supporting me. I glance beside me and am relieved to see the familiar (back to normal) face of my girlfriend staring back at me. Her eyes are dark with worry, and there’s a faint line beginning to form between her brows.

  Looking directly at our father who had followed Mum out, Bill says, “Mad-Eye’s dead.”

  Nobody speaks, nobody moves.

  “We saw it,” says Bill; Fleur nods, tear tracks glittering on her cheeks in the light from the kitchen window. “It happened just after we broke out of the circle: Mad-Eye, Dung, and Jamie were close by us, they were heading north too. Voldemort — he can fly — went straight for them. Dung panicked, I heard him cry out, Mad-Eye tried to stop him, but he Disapparated. Voldemort’s curse hit Mad-Eye full in the face, he fell backward off his broom and — there was nothing we could do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our own tail and Jamie was having to face—”

  Bill’s voice breaks.

  “Of course you couldn’t have done anything,” says Lupin. I notice for the first time that everyone else besides the twins have made their way outside as well. Mum has silent tears running down her cheeks, but she focuses her attention on me, a problem that can actually be solved.

  “Jamie dear, come lets get you inside so that we can take a look at that leg of yours.” She says shakily reaching out for me, and Ariana and I hobble towards the house.

  “I tried to get away. There were just too many of them… one of them hit my broom.” I say looking down at my leg to notice a good shard of woof sticking out of my thigh, with a stream of blood running down the pant leg. Huh— no wonder it hurt.

  “Thank Merlin you’re alive.” Ariana whispers tightening her grip on me.

  At last it seems to dawn on everyone, though nobody says it, that there is no point waiting in the yard anymore, and in silence we follow Mum and Dad back into the Burrow, and into the living room, where Fred and George are laughing together.

  We manage to make it into the house, with Mum ushering Ariana to help me onto the couch next to a bloody George who looks like he’s lost an ear, which worries me.

  “What’s wrong?” says Fred, scanning our faces as we enter. “What’s happened? Who’s — ?”

  “Mad-Eye,” says Dad. “Dead.”

  Molly sets to work removing the shard from my leg, and muttering a healing spell under her breath which heats up my leg uncomfortably, before the pain is taken completely away. Ariana doesn’t let go of my hand the whole time.

  The twins’ grins turn to grimaces of shock. Nobody seems to know what to do. Tonks is crying silently into a handkerchief: She was close to Mad-Eye, I know, his favorite and his protégée at the Ministry of Magic. Hagrid, who has sat down on the floor in the corner where he has most space, is dabbing at his eyes with his tablecloth-sized handkerchief. I’m just numb. I can’t believe everything that happened to me. I would have thought it all a bad dream if not for the cold, burning red eyes and the vision of Mad-Eye dead falling from the sky, that pops up each time I close my eyes.

  Bill walks over to the sideboard and pulls out a bottle of firewhisky and some glasses.

  “Here,” he says, and with a wave of his wand he sends sixteen full glasses soaring through the room to each of us, holding the seventeenth aloft. “Mad-Eye.”

  “Mad-Eye,” we all say, and drink.

  “Mad-Eye,” echoes Hagrid, a little late, with a hiccup.

  The firewhisky burns my throat, but it shocks me out of my stupor and grounds me in the moment, with a slight cough. That’s when the shaking returns. Ariana looks at me even more worriedly now, and I bury my head into her side from where she’s sitting perched on the arm of the couch.

  She doesn’t say anything; only wrap her arm tighter around me.

  “So Mundungus disappeared?” says Lupin, who has drained his own glass in one.

  “The second Voldemort showed up.” I say darkly closing my eyes, and vainly attempt to banish the unwanted vision of the Dark Lord from my brain.

  The atmosphere changes at once. Everybody looks tense, watching Lupin, both wanting him to go on, it seems to me, slightly afraid of what we might hear.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” says Bill, “and I wondered that too, on the way back here, because they seemed to be expecting us, didn’t they? But Mundungus can’t have betrayed us. They didn’t know there would be eight Harrys, that confused them the moment we appeared, and in case you’ve forgotten, it was Mundungus who suggested that little bit of skullduggery. Why wouldn’t he have told them the essential point? I think Dung panicked, it’s as simple as that. He didn’t want to come in the first place, but Mad-Eye made him, and You-Know-Who went straight for them. It was enough to make anyone panic.”

  “It was horrible.” I whimper quiet enough so that only those near me could hear. Ariana, Luka, Hermione, George, and Mum all cringe at that.

  “You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected him to,” sniffs Tonks. “Mad-Eye said he’d expect the real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled Aurors. He chased Mad-Eye first, and when Mundungus gave them away he didn’t bother with Jamie (I cringe) he switched to Kingsley. . . .”

  “Yes, and zat eez all very good,” snaps Fleur, “but still eet does not explain ’ow zey knew we were moving ’Arry tonight, does eet? Somebody must ’ave been careless. Somebody let slip ze date to an outsider. It is ze only explanation for zem knowing ze date but not ze ’ole plan.”

  She glares around at us all; tear tracks still etched on her beautiful face, silently daring any of us to contradict her. Nobody does. The only sound to break the silence is that of Hagrid hiccuping from behind his handkerchief.

  “No,” Harry says aloud, and we all look at him, surprised: The firewhisky seems to have amplified his voice. “I mean . . . if somebody made a mistake,” Harry goes on, “and let something slip, I know they didn’t mean to do it. It’s not their fault,” he repeats, again a little louder than he usually would have spoken. “We’ve got to trust each other. I trust all of you, I don’t think anyone in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort.”

  “Well said, Harry,” says Fred unexpectedly.

  “Yeah, ’ear, ’ear,” says George, with half a glance at Fred, the corner of whose mouth twitches.

  Lupin is wearing an odd expression as he looks at Harry. It is close to pitying.

  “You think I’m a fool?” demands Harry.

  “No, I think you’re like James,” says Lupin, “who would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends.”

  He turns to Bill next before Harry can say anything to that, though I know that he wants to.

  “There’s work to do. I can ask Kingsley whether —”

  “No,” says Bill at once, “I’ll do it, I’ll come.”

  “Where are you going?” says Tonks and Fleur together.

  “Mad-Eye’s body,” says Lupin. “We need to recover it.”

  “Can’t it — ?” begins Mum with an appealing look at Bill.

  “Wait?” says Bill. “Not unless you’d rather the Death Eaters took it?”

  Nobody speaks. Lupin and Bill say good-bye and leave. I shiver at the thought of what they will find. Maybe they will also find the body of the man that I shot out of the sky with stupefy.

  The rest of them now drop into chairs, all except for Harry, who remains standing. The suddenness and completeness of death is with us like a presence.

  “I’ve got to go too,” says Harry.

  We all turn to look at him like he’s grown a second head.

  “Don’t be silly, Harry,” says Mum. “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t stay here.” Harry repeats again.

  “You’re all in danger while I’m here. I don’t want —”

  “But don’t be so silly!” says Mum. “The whole point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank goodness it worked. And Fleur’s agreed to get married here rather than in France, we’ve arranged everything so that we can all stay together and look after you —”

  I can tell that she’s making him feel worse rather than better.

  “If Voldemort finds out I’m here —”

  “But why should he?” asks Mum.

  “There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry,” says Dad. “He’s got no way of knowing which safe house you’re in.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried for!” says Harry.

  “We know that,” Dad says quietly, “but it would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless if you left.”

  “Yer not goin’ anywhere,” growls Hagrid. “Blimey, Harry, after all we wen’ through ter get you here?”

  “Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?” says George, hoisting himself up on his cushions.

  “I know that —”

  “Mad-Eye wouldn’t want —”

  “I KNOW!” Harry bellows.

  There is a long and awkward silence, which is broken at last by Mum.

  “Where’s Hedwig, Harry?” she says coaxingly. “We can put her up with Pigwidgeon, Dionysus, and Pip, and give her something to eat.”

  Harry gulps his firewhiskey and I have a sinking feeling that something bad happened to Hedwig.

  “Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry,” says Hagrid. “Escaped him, fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!”

  “It wasn’t me,” says Harry flatly. “It was my wand. My wand acted of its own accord.”

  After a few moments, Hermione says gently, “But that’s impossible, Harry. You mean that you did magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively.”

  “No,” says Harry. “The bike was falling, I couldn’t have told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and it wasn’t even a spell I recognized. I’ve never made gold flames appear before.”

  “Often,” says Dad, “when you’re in a pressured situation you can produce magic you never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they’re trained —”

  “It wasn’t like that,” says Harry through gritted teeth. Everything is silent for a moment and Harry mumbles something about going outside to get some air. I watch as he retreats out of the house, his anger leaving with him.

  Ron and Hermione slowly make their way to follow. I sigh before untangling myself from my girlfriend.

  “You know Jamie, not everything has to be about Harry. You can put yourself first you know.” Ariana says softly giving me an almost pleading look to for once not go after Harry.

  “Doesn’t it though?” I say not being able to bring myself to stay and talk about what I’ve been through just quite yet.

  “Just remember that I’m here.” She says softly kissing me, and some of the guilt that had been twisting in my stomach releases.

  I quickly follow after Ron and Hermione, and the three of us make our way outside and to Harry at the gate to the garden.

  “Harry?” Hermione says worriedly.

  Harry stands shaking in the darkness, clutching the gate into the garden. It is several moments before he realizes that Ron, Hermione, and I are at his side.

  “Harry, come back in the house,” Hermione whispers. “You aren’t still thinking of leaving?”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to stay, mate,” says Ron, thumping Harry on the back.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, close enough now to look into Harry’s face. “You don’t look in the greatest shape…”

  “Well,” says Harry shakily, “I probably look better than Ollivander. . . .”

  He takes the next few minutes describing Voldemort torturing Ollivander for the incorrect information about how to break the connection between his and Harry’s wands. My stomach twists painfully, and I think I’m going to be sick. Too much has happened today, I’m not sure how much more I can handle at the moment.

  Ron looks appalled at this, but Hermione looks downright terrified.

  “But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar — it wasn’t supposed to do this anymore! You mustn’t let that connection open up again — Dumbledore wanted you to close your mind!”

  When Harry does not reply, she grips his arm.

  “Harry, he’s taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don’t let him inside your head too!”

  On that cheery note, the four of us lapse back into silence. I for one am thinking about the consequences and weight of the situation that we’ve managed to get ourselves into here. We’re going to need a miracle.


	3. Fail to Prepare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 3- Fail to Prepare

 

  The shock of losing Mad-Eye hangs over the house in the days that follow; I keep expecting to see him stumping in through the back door like the other Order members, who pass in and out to relay news. I can tell that Harry is getting anxious to get out there and find the Horcruxes.

  “Well, you can’t do anything about the” — Ron mouths the word Horcruxes — “till you’re seventeen. You’ve still got the Trace on you. And we can plan here as well as anywhere, can’t we? Or,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “d’you reckon you already know where the You-Know-Whats are?”

  “No,” Harry admits.

  “I think Hermione’s been doing a bit of research,” says Ron. “She said she was saving it for when you got here.”

  “She has she’s been keeping us all up with the amount of page flipping and light waving that she’s been doing late into the night.” I say hiding a yawn behind my hand.

  Harry, Ron, and I are sitting at the breakfast table; Dad and Bill have just left for work. Mum has gone upstairs to wake Hermione and Ginny, while Fleur has drifted off to take a bath. Luka is out feeding the chickens for it’s his day to do so. Even though we’re all of age and not children anymore Mum demands free labor.

  “The Trace’ll break on the thirty-first,” says Harry. “That means I only need to stay here four days. Then I can —”

  “Five days,” Ron corrects him firmly. “We’ve got to stay for the wedding. They’ll kill us if we miss it.”

  Fleur and Mum are the ‘they’ he’s referring too, but I can just imagine how livid Ariana would be if we missed out on the chance to go to the wedding together. She’s not ashamed to be seen with me in public, and anyone who cares that two girls are dating each other are just big sacks of dragon dung.

  “Don’t they realize how important — ?” Harry starts only to get cut off by Ron.

  “’Course they don’t,” says Ron. “They haven’t got a clue. And now you mention it, we wanted to talk to you about that.”

  Ron glances toward the door into the hall to check that Mum is not returning yet, then leans in closer to Harry.

  “Mum’s been trying to get it out of Jamie, Hermione, and me. What we’re off to do. She’ll try you next, so brace yourself. Dad and Lupin’ve both asked as well, but when we said Dumbledore told you not to tell anyone except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though. She’s determined.”

  “She literally trapped me while I was in the shower. I don’t know what was worse having the water run cold on me, or the way that I could see her silhouette still standing there with her hands on her hips after five minutes.” I shiver remembering not too fondly a day ago.

  Luckily enough a letter arrives via Scribbles Ariana’s owl a few hours later that day requesting that if I had the time if I could come over that day for there was some things that we needed to talk about. I was a little nervous about how serious the letter was worded.

  So when I approached my father about leaving to go and see her that afternoon, he was more than willing to allow me to go, on the assurance that I would come back that night, and give Ariana and Minerva they’re best wishes. I couldn’t have agreed any faster, especially when I noticed that Mum was busy cornering Harry.

  She did look up from her talk with him to see me outside with Dad, but I only raised my hand in a quick farewell, happy that I was not going to have to be the one to tell her that I was leaving. With pull at my navel the world blinks away.

 

* * *

 

 

  Approaching the little white house, my nerves jump to the highest level they’ve been at all day. I had thought that Ariana and I were in an okay place. I didn’t think  that I had done anything too bad in the last few days that would warrant a serious enough talk.

  I fiddle nervously with the small necklace around my neck that she had given me years ago. I was probably burning her with the intensity at which I was thinking about her, but I couldn’t help it. The door to the house flings open the second that I step onto the front porch.

  Ariana’s blond hair is wild and escaping from the ponytail she had tied it back with, and her brown eyes were alight with worry at the sight of me. She grabs me by the wrist and ushers me into the house making sure to lock and enchant the door behind us. Instead of guiding me to the living room she pulls me up the short flight of stairs to the second floor.

  We walk down the small hallway to the last room on the left. Ariana pushes the door open then closes it behind us. I stand there taking in the room that my girlfriend has been living in for the past month or so. It was a nice room, the walls painted a pale green, with white wooden furniture.

  I spy a few more pictures of what looks like her mother and father, Mira and Adrian on the window ledge by the desk in the far corner of the room. There’s a nice double bed in the opposite corner that’s made up with a lovely patchwork quilt, and a pile of books on the bedside table, along with a framed photo of the pair of us from Slughorn’s Christmas party.

  We both are smiling like idiots in the picture, but it honestly is one of my favorite memories. “What’s wrong Jamie?” Ariana asks turning me around to face her, so that she can look me over for injuries.

  “I-I thought you were mad… you said we had to talk.” I say nervously fidgeting with my hands.

  “What? No! No, Jamie. It’s nothing like that! I just wanted to get you alone.” Ariana admits a blush rising to her cheeks. I let out a sigh of relief at the fact that we’re not in danger of having our relationship implode.

  “Good, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” I admit trying to get my still quickly beating heart under control.

  “Sorry. I just realized that since its now close to the wedding that our time together is going to be seriously cut short— and I’m guessing that you will be leaving after?” Ariana says her voice lowering to a whisper.

  I frown at the stress and worry that has appeared on her face. She walks over to her bed and sinks down onto the mattress. Biting my lip I kneel down in front of her grabbing her hands.

  “You must know that I want more than anything in the world to be able to stay with you. I-I love you so much Ariana, but—”

  “Harry needs you.” She cuts me off. Swallowing the lump that’s formed in my throat I nod my head.

  “I’m sorry.” I whisper brokenly, lowering my head in defeat. I had hoped this wouldn’t be a problem but I guess it is.

  Soft fingers cup my jaw pulling my face back up so that I can look straight into her brown eyes. Unwanted tears slip out of my eyes, and race down my cheeks. Ariana’s expression turns infinitely sad and tender.

  “Sh… don’t cry love. I’m not mad. I understand, I understand more than I want to. Jame you wouldn’t be the same person that I fell in love with, if you didn’t go with your friends. You are this incredibly beautiful, ridiculously brave person, who is loyal almost to a fault. I couldn’t live with myself if I forced you to stay.” She says tremulously.

  I shoot up from my spot on the ground in front of her and wrap my arms around her tightly. This girl— I don’t know what I would do without her. My life would be so much bleaker and miserable without her. Ariana clutches me back just as tightly. At some point our lips had found each other, and the grips that we held were not so much desperate anymore, more so passionate now.

  I don’t know how exactly we got there, but the next thing I realize is that we’re both panting heavily, and Ariana is now sitting against her headboard, with me straddling her lap. My arms are wrapped around her neck, and one of her hands is tangled in my hair, while the other is resting quite possessively on my hip.

  Heat rises to my already flushed cheeks, and I can see the slight shock in Ariana’s dilated eyes at the position we’ve managed to find ourselves in. It’s not too surprising since we’ve managed to find ourselves in this exact position more and more as of late.

  I lean forward and attach my swollen lips to hers once again, and we’re lost in our kiss for a few moments before she pulls back this time. “Wait— are you sure about this?” She whispers, her voice catching. I blink at the implication in her tone.

  “Never been surer about anything in my life.” I whisper back huskily. We melt back together and I let out a soft sigh, knowing that this is exactly where I want to be forever.

 

* * *

 

 

  I’m not able to return back to the Burrow until the next day, despite what I promised Dad. McGonagall had shown up right as I was about to leave, breathless, and with a grim expression on her face. Supposedly someone had set fire to a few of the wizarding shops and homes in the village and it was suspected Death Eater activity.

  She had firmly put her foot down on me apparating back home that evening, and instead sent a patronus to the Burrow to explain what had happened. Safe to say that Mum wasn’t happy, but I was more than willing to spend the night with Ariana, even if it did mean on the floor of her room.

  It was a little awkward having dinner with my Transfiguration Professor and my girlfriend, but Ariana kept hold of one of my hands under the table the whole time, fueling the warm feeling spreading through me. Parting the next morning was almost painful after how close we had grown.

  “You don’t get to die on me— you hear?” Ariana says after fiercely kissing me goodbye on her doorstep.

  “Never.” I say returning the kiss with one of my own, before reluctantly breaking away.

  I cautiously make my way back to the point deemed safe for apparation and with a CRACK, disappear from the quiet little lane.

  Its chaos the moment I reappear. After a good half an hour getting lectured at by Mum, (I need HER express permission to go anywhere) and being looked over for injuries, I’m set a long list of tasks that coincidentally have none of my friends on them as well.

  By the time it was time to have dinner I was exhausted. From having the most wonderful and relaxing time with my girlfriend to having to practically clean everything in the living room it had been a long and taxing day.

  Dad, Bill, and Kingsley join us for dinner that night. I’ve grown used to the increase of Order members dining with us since our house has now become the headquarters for the Order since Grimmauld place had become compromised with the whole Snape thing.

  I was in the kitchen washing the dust off my hands when they had entered, (I was also trying to give Harry and Ginny some space by playing look out for Mum).

  A few nights ago Dad had tried to explain to Harry and me why our house had become the new site of the Order.

  He explained that after the death of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, each of the people to whom Dumbledore confided Grimmauld Place’s location became a Secret-Keeper in turn.

  “And as there are around twenty of us, that greatly dilutes the power of the Fidelius Charm. Twenty times as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the secret out of somebody. We can’t expect it to hold much longer.”

  “But surely Snape will have told the Death Eaters the address by now?” asks Harry.

  “Kreacher will just love that.” I grumble.

  “Well, Mad-Eye set up a couple of curses against Snape in case he turns up there again. We hope they’ll be strong enough both to keep him out and to bind his tongue if he tries to talk about the place, but we can’t be sure. It would have been insane to keep using the place as headquarters now that its protection has become so shaky.” Dad explains.

  The kitchen is so crowded that evening it is difficult to maneuver knives and forks. I’m squished between Luka and Hermione having a quiet conversation about the paranoid and stressed behavior of Mum.

  “No news about Mad-Eye?” Harry asks Bill. My attention is immediately on the conversation. The guilt and dread that rises up like a tidal wave in me each time the man is mentioned, comes roaring to the forefront.

  “Nothing,” replies Bill.

  We have not been able to hold a funeral for Moody, because Bill and Lupin failed to recover his body. It has been difficult to know where he may have fallen, given the darkness and the confusion of the battle. I’ve been questioned multiple times on that night.

  “The Daily Prophet hasn’t said a word about him dying or about finding the body,” Bill goes on. “But that doesn’t mean much. It’s keeping a lot quiet these days.”

  “And they still haven’t called a hearing about all the underage magic I used escaping the Death Eaters?” Harry calls across the table to Dad, who shakes his head.

  “Because they know I had no choice or because they don’t want me to tell the world Voldemort attacked me?”

  “The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn’t want to admit that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, nor that Azkaban’s seen a mass breakout.”

  “Yeah, why tell the public the truth?” says Harry, clenching his knife so tightly that the faint scars on the back of his right hand stand out (I can even see them from where I am), white against his skin: I must not tell lies. I grimace and massage the back of my hand where a set of white scars remains like his.

  “Isn’t anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to him?” asks Ron angrily.

  “Why would they? They’re obviously working for the Dark Side.” I say grumpily.

  “Not necessarily Jamie, and of course, Ron, but people are terrified,” Dad replies, “terrified that they will be next to disappear, their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty rumors going around; I for one don’t believe the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts resigned. She hasn’t been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day: I just hope he’s working on a plan.”

  There was a pause in which Mum magicks the empty plates onto the work surface and serves apple tart.

  “We must decide ’ow you will be disguised, ’Arry,” says Fleur, once everyone has pudding. “For ze wedding,” she adds, when he looks confused. “Of course, none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after zey ’ave ’ad champagne.”

  “Yes, good point,” says Mum from the top of the table, where she sits, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, scanning an immense list of jobs that she has scribbled on a very long piece of parchment. “Now, Ron, Luka, have you cleaned out your room yet?”

  “Why?” exclaims Ron, slamming his spoon down and glaring at his mother. “Why does my room have to be cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is! Luka hasn’t complained!”

  “My side is clean Mum.” Luka says rolling his eyes at Ron’s terror.

  “We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few days’ time, young man —” Mum says glaring at Ron.

  “And are they getting married in my bedroom?” asks Ron furiously. “No! So why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left —”

  “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” says Dad firmly. “And do as you’re told.”

  Ron scowls at both his parents, then picks up his spoon and attacks the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.

  “I can help, some of it’s my mess,” Harry tells Ron, but Mum cuts across him.

  “No, Harry, dear, I’d much rather you helped Arthur muck out the chickens, and Hermione, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they’re arriving at eleven tomorrow morning. Jamie your room could take a looking at as well.”

  Groaning the four of us get up to go about our separate tasks, while Mum doles out more housework to Ginny and Luka, who for a split second looked relieved to not have any tasks assigned to them.

  Fortunately we keep our room pretty spotless compared to the boys of the house. All I did was straighten up the trucks and run the wrinkles out of the sheet, before trudging up the stairs to Ron and Luka’s room. I push the door open without even knocking, sending Ron tumbling from his bed where he was lounged.

  “Oi Jamie, give a person a ruddy heart attack why don’t you?” He growls lowly, pulling himself back up onto his bed. I spot Hermione over on Luka’s side of the room sorting through a large stack of books.

  Suddenly Harry comes in shocking Ron yet again. I make my way over to Hermione, and pet Crookshanks on his fuzzy orange head.

  I notice that some of the books in Hermione’s large piles are some of my own as well as Harry’s and Ron’s.

  “Hi, Jamie, Harry,” Hermione says, as Harry sits down on his camp bed.

  “And how did you two manage to get away?” Harry asks.

  “Our room unlike yours is pretty much spotless.” I say with a grin.

  “Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday,” says Hermione. She throws Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.

  “We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron tells us. “I reckon he might have survived.”

  “Impossible.” I say adamantly, shivering as the scene of Mad-Eye’s death flashes through my mind again. Hermione squeezes my knee, until my eyes focus on her again.

  “Yeah, but you and Bill were under attack too,” says Ron. “How can you be sure what you saw?”

  “Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet,” says Hermione, now weighing Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand.

  “He could have used a Shield Charm —”

  “Just stop! The killing curse hit him dead in the face! I watched him fall of his broom. He was dead! There was no shield charm, no dodging, no living! Just death.” I cry, burying my face in my hands. Hermione drops the book she was holding and wraps her arm around me.

  “Ron!” Hermione scolds.

  “Come on mate.” Harry says.

  “Well, all right, if you want him to be dead,” says Ron grumpily, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape.

  It is silent for a few minutes as Hermione finally manages to talk me out of my small attack. Once it looks like I’m going to be okay she lets me go, and returns to the piles of books in front of her. I just rub at my teary eye, and think about how much I miss Ariana.

  “The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that’s why no one’s found him,” says Ron wisely finally.

  “Yeah,” says Harry. “Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid’s front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him —”

  I cringe at the thought and the detail that Harry is putting into this. Luckily I’ve managed to get some sort of control of myself.

  “Don’t!” squeals Hermione. She bursts into tears over her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary.

  “Oh no,” says Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed. “Hermione, I wasn’t trying to upset —”

  But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounds off the bed and gets there first. One arm around Hermione, he fishes in his jeans pocket and withdraws a revolting-looking handkerchief that he used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling out his wand, he points it at the rag and says, “Tergeo.”

  The wand siphons off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself, Ron hands the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione.

  “Oh . . . thanks, Ron. . . . I’m sorry. . . .” She blows her nose and hiccups. “It’s just so awf-ful, isn’t it? R-right after Dumbledore . . . I j-just n-never imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!”

  “Yeah, I know,” says Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But you know what he’d say to us if he was here?”

  Well I see where upsetting sisters rate on the scale of upsetting Hermione. That boy seriously has it bad.

  “‘C-constant vigilance,’” says Hermione, mopping her eyes.

  “That’s right,” says Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.”

  “Truthfully Voldemort is the scariest thing I’ve seen before, so…” I say trailing off with a shrug. Harry looks at me with a grim, knowing look. Harry and I have grown even closer in the days that he’s been here. I finally know what its like to see someone die in front of you, and he’s been so helpful in trying to deal with those feelings.

  Hermione leans forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron has snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she dropped The Monster Book of Monsters on his foot. The book has broken free from its restraining belt and snaps viciously at Ron’s ankle.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cries as Harry and I wrench the book from Ron’s leg and retie it shut. I can’t help but think that he deserves it a little bit, for being a git earlier.

  “What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asks, limping back to his bed.

  “Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” says Hermione. “When we’re looking for the Horcruxes.”

  “Oh, of course,” says Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.”

  “They’ll probably be a lot more helpful then you’ll be.” I say. Ron glares at me, and I raise an eyebrow in challenge.

  “Ha ha,” says Hermione trying to diffuse the tension, looking down at Spellman’s Syllabary. “I wonder . . . will we need to translate runes? It’s possible. . . . I think we’d better take it, to be safe.”

  She drops the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picks up Hogwarts: A History.

  “Listen,” says Harry.

  He has sat up straight. Ron, Hermione, and I look at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance. I’m just getting irritated now.

  “I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with me,” Harry begins.

  “Here he goes,” Ron says to Hermione and me, rolling his eyes.

  “As we knew he would,” Hermione sighs, turning back to the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts: A History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with —”

  “Listen!” says Harry again.

  “No, Harry, you listen,” I say. “We’re coming with you. That was decided months ago — years, really.”

  “But —”

  “Shut up,” Ron advises him.

  “— are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Harry persists.

  “Let’s see,” says Hermione, slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. “I’ve been packing for days, so we’re ready to leave at a moment’s notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron and Jamie’s mum’s nose.”

  “I’ve also modified my parents’ memories so that they’re convinced they’re really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life’s ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done. That’s to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me — or you, because unfortunately, I’ve told them quite a bit about you.”

  “Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don’t — well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don’t know that they’ve got a daughter, you see.”

  Hermione’s eyes are swimming with tears again. I grab her hand and squeeze it. Ron gets back off the bed, puts his arm around her once more, and frowns at Harry as though reproaching him for lack of tact.

  “I — Hermione, I’m sorry — I didn’t —” Harry sputters.

  “Didn’t realize that Ron, Jamie, and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you’ve done.”

  Ron practically has to drag Harry out of the room to go and show him what he did with the ghoul. That leaves Hermione and I alone in the room. “Are you sure that you want to do this?” She asks me softly.

  I grit my teeth and get up to start pacing the room. “I understand the risks. I’m not going to hide the fact that I’m leaving from mum though. She’ll notice that Ron and I are gone sooner rather than later. I’ve already told Ariana that I’ll be leaving… Luka knows that something is up. He’ll understand as much as he won’t like it.” I explain, collapsing onto my brother’s bed with a sigh.

  “We’re doing the right thing.” Hermione says staring down on the book in her hands while biting her lip.

  “Never have been surer of that fact.” I say in agreement. Harry and Ron come back into the room, and Harry has this look on his face that’s too funny for words.

  “Enjoy the ghoul eh?” I say with a grin.

  “Once we’ve left, the ghoul’s going to come and live down here in my room,” says Ron. “I think he’s really looking forward to it — well, it’s hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool — but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he’s going to be me with spattergroit. Good, eh?”

  Harry merely looks confused.

  “It is!” says Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry has not grasped the brilliance of the plan. “Look, when we four don’t turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone’s going to think Hermione, Jamie, and I must be with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if they’ve got information on where you are.”

  “But hopefully it’ll look like I’ve gone away with Mum and Dad; a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about going into hiding at the moment,” says Hermione.

  “We can’t hide my whole family, it’ll look too fishy and they can’t all leave their jobs,” says Ron. “So we’re going to put out the story that I’m seriously ill with spattergroit, which is why I can’t go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit’s really contagious, so they’re not going to want to go near him. It won’t matter that he can’t say anything, either, because apparently you can’t once the fungus has spread to your uvula.”

  “And your mum and dad are in on this plan?” asks Harry.

  “Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. They’re going to figure something out for Jamie as well, but she’s more stubborn, says that we shouldn’t bother to do anything for her. I believe they’re figuring out something for her having Spattergroit as well. Mum . . . well, you’ve seen what she’s like. She won’t accept we’re going till we’ve gone.”

  There is silence in the room, broken only by gentle thuds as Hermione continues to throw books onto one pile or the other.

  Through the silence comes the muffled sounds of Mum shouting from four floors below.

  “Ginny’s probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring,” says Ron. “I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding.”

  “Fleur’s sister’s a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she’s too young to come on her own,” says Hermione, as she pores indecisively over Break with a Banshee.

  “Well, guests aren’t going to help Mum’s stress levels,” says Ron.

  “What we really need to decide,” says Hermione, tossing Defensive Magical Theory into the bin without a second glance and picking up An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, “is where we’re going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric’s Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why, but . . . well . . . shouldn’t we make the Horcruxes our priority?” 

  “If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I’d agree with you,” says Harry.

  “Why do I have the feeling that this is going to end up being one severely long game of hide and seek life and death edition?” I moan rubbing my temples that are already beginning to throb at just the thought of this complicated trip.

  “Don’t you think there’s a possibility that Voldemort’s keeping a watch on Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione asks. “He might expect you to go back and visit your parents’ graves once you’re free to go wherever you like?”

  Ron speaks up, evidently following his own train of thought, before Harry can respond to that.

  “This R.A.B. person,” he says. “You know, the one who stole the real locket?”

  Hermione nods.

  “He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn’t he?”

  Harry drags his rucksack towards him and pulls out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B.’s note is still folded.

  “‘I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can,’” Harry reads out.

  “Well, what if he did finish it off?” says Ron.

  “Or she,” interposes Hermione.

  “Whichever,” says Ron, “it’d be one less for us to do!”

  “Yes but they’re incredibly hard to destroy, what’re the chances that they actually managed to do so?” I ask shaking my head.

  “Yes, but we’re still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren’t we?” says Hermione, “to find out whether or not it’s destroyed.”

  “And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a Horcrux?” asks Ron.

  “Well,” says Hermione, “I’ve been researching that.”

  “How?” asks Harry. “I didn’t think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library?”

  “There weren’t,” says Hermione, who has turned pink. “Dumbledore removed them all, but he — he didn’t destroy them.”

  Ron sits up straight, wide-eyed.

  “How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?”

  “Have you taken lessons from Luka in book thieving Hermione?” I ask her slightly impressed.

  “It — it wasn’t stealing!” says Hermione, looking from Harry to Ron with a kind of desperation. “They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn’t want anyone to get at them, I’m sure he would have made it much harder to —”

  “Get to the point!” says Ron.

  “Well . . . it was easy,” says Hermione in a small voice. “I just did a Summoning Charm. You know — Accio. And — they zoomed out of Dumbledore’s study window right into the girls’ dormitory.”

  “But when did you do this?” Harry asks, regarding Hermione with a mixture of admiration and incredulity.

  “Just after his — Dumbledore’s — funeral,” said Hermione in an even smaller voice. “Right after we agreed we’d leave school and go and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it — it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be . . . and I was alone in there . . . so I tried . . . and it worked. They flew straight in through the open window and I — I packed them.”

  “That’s why you nearly had a heart attack when I came into the room!” I say, shocked that my best friend managed to hide this information from me then, and until now.

  Hermione swallows and then says imploringly, “I can’t believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it’s not as though we’re going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?”

  “Can you hear us complaining?” says Ron. “Where are these books anyway?”

 Hermione rummages for a moment and then extracts from the pile a large volume, bound in faded black leather. She looks a little nauseated and holds it as gingerly as if it is something recently dead.

  “This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art — it’s a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library. . . . If he didn’t do it until he was headmaster, I bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here.”

  “Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he’d already read that?” asks Ron.

  “He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven,” says Harry. “Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you’re right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information.”

  “And the more I’ve read about them,” says Hermione, “the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that’s just by making one Horcrux!”

  “Isn’t there any way of putting yourself back together?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says Hermione with a hollow smile, “but it would be excruciatingly painful.”

  “Why? How do you do it?” asks Harry.

  “Remorse,” says Hermione. “You’ve got to really feel what you’ve done. There’s a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?”

  “No,” says Ron, before we can answer. “So does it say how to destroy Horcruxes in that book?”

  “Yes,” says Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting entrails, “because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments on them. From all that I’ve read, what Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.”

  “What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” asks Harry.

  “Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then,” says Ron. “I was wondering what we were going to do with them.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang,” says Hermione patiently. “It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare —”

  “— phoenix tears,” I say, nodding.

  “Exactly,” says Hermione. “Our problem is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they’re all dangerous to carry around with you. That’s a problem we’re going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.”

  “But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” says Ron, “why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?”

  “Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being.”

  Seeing that Harry, Ron, and I look thoroughly confused, Hermione hurries on,   “Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.”

  “Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” says Ron. Harry and I laugh.

  “It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched,” says Hermione. “But it’s the other way round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can’t exist without it.”

  “That diary sort of died when I stabbed it,” says Harry, making me remember ink pouring like blood from the punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of Voldemort’s soul as it vanished.

  “And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could no longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away, but obviously it came back good as new.”

  “Hang on,” says Ron, frowning. “The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that work, then?”

  “While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she adds before Ron can speak. “I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”

  “I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” says Harry. “Why didn’t I ask him? I never really . . .”

  We trail off into silence. Just talking about all this dark magic is beginning to make my skin crawl. I really hate the Dark Arts. Truly.

  The silence is shattered as the bedroom door flies open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieks and drops Secrets of the Darkest Art; Crookshanks streaks under Luka’s bed, hissing indignantly; Ron jumps off his bed, skids on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacks his head on the opposite wall; I topple off Luka’s bed onto the floor; and Harry instinctively dives for his wand before realizing that he is looking up at Mum, whose hair is disheveled and whose face is contorted with rage.

  “I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m sure you all need your rest . . . but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help.”

  “Oh yes,” says Hermione, looking terrified as she leaps to her feet, sending books flying in every direction, “we will . . . we’re sorry . . .”

  With an anguished look at Harry, Ron, and me, Hermione hurries out of the room after Mum.

  “It’s like being a house-elf,” complains Ron in an undertone, still massaging his head as we follow. “Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.”

  “Yeah,” says Harry, “then we’ll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes. . . . It’ll be like a holiday, won’t it?”

  “As long as you bring the eggnog.” I mutter.

  Ron starts to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for us in Mum’s room, stops quite abruptly.

  “Well I guess we’ll be done in time for Christmas.” I say grimly, going to stand beside Hermione.

 

* * *

 

 

  The Delacours arrive the following morning at eleven o’clock. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luka, and I are feeling quite resentful towards Fleur’s family by this time, and it is with ill grace that Ron stumps back upstairs to put on matching socks, and Harry attempts to flatten his hair. I’m even forced into one of my nicer blouses and a skirt along with Ginny. Once we have all been deemed smart enough, we troop out into the sunny backyard to await the visitors.

  I have never seen the place looking so tidy. The rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually littered the steps by the back door are gone, replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing either side of the door in large pots; though there is no breeze, the leaves wave lazily, giving an attractive rippling effect. The chickens have been shut away, the yard has been swept, and the nearby garden has been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up, although I, who like it in its overgrown state, think that it looks rather forlorn without its usual contingent of capering gnomes.

  “Are you excited to see your pen pal Luka?” I ask with a smirk.

  “Shut it Jame.” He whispers back.

  I lost track of how many security enchantments that had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order and the Ministry; all I know is that it is no longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Dad has therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where they are to arrive by Portkey. The first sound of their approach is an unusually high-pitched laugh, which turns out to be coming from Dad, who appears at the gate moments later, laden with luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in long, leaf-green robes, who can only be Fleur’s mother.

  “Maman!” cries Fleur, rushing forward to embrace her. “Papa!”

  Monsieur Delacour is nowhere near as attractive as his wife; he is a head shorter and extremely plump, with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looks good-natured. Bouncing towards Mum on high-heeled boots, he kisses her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.

  “You ’ave been to much trouble,” he says in a deep voice. “Fleur tells us you ’ave been working very ’ard.”

  “Oh, it’s been nothing, nothing!” trills Mum. “No trouble at all!”

  Ron relieves his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome who is peering out from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.

  “Dear lady!” says Monsieur Delacour, still holding Mum’s hand between his own two plump ones and beaming. “We are most honored at the approaching union of our two families! Let me present my wife, Apolline.”

  Madame Delacour glides forward and stoops to kiss Mum too.

  “Enchantée,” she says. “Your ’usband ’as been telling us such amusing stories!”

  Dad gives a maniacal laugh; and Mum throws him a look, upon which he becomes immediately silent and assumes an expression appropriate to the sickbed of a close friend.

  “And, of course, you ’ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!” says Monsieur Delacour. Gabrielle is Fleur in miniature; thirteen years old, with waist-length hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gives Mum a dazzling smile and hugs her, then throws Harry a glowing look, and proceeds to tackle Luka into a hug.

  “Well, come in, do!” says Mum brightly, and she ushers the Delacours into the house, with many “No, please!”s and “After you!”s and “Not at all!”s.”

  The Delacours, it soon transpires, are helpful, pleasant guests. They are pleased with everything and keen to assist with the preparations for the wedding. Monsieur Delacour pronounces everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids’ shoes “Charmant!” Madame Delacour is most accomplished at household spells and has the oven properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle follows her elder sister around, trying to assist in any way she can and jabbering away in rapid French. When she’s not doing that, she and Luka are talking together like old school chums, while helping him practice his French.

  On the downside, the Burrow is not built to accommodate so many people. Mum and Dad are now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted down Monsieur and Madame Delacour’s protests and insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle is sleeping with Fleur in Percy’s old room, and Bill will be sharing with Charlie, his best man, once Charlie arrives from Romania. Opportunities to make plans together become virtually nonexistent, and it is in desperation that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I take to volunteering to feed the chickens just to escape the overcrowded house.

  “But she still won’t leave us alone!” snarls Ron, as our second attempt at a meeting in the yard is foiled by the appearance of mum carrying a large basket of laundry in her arms.

  “Oh, good, you’ve fed the chickens,” she calls as she approached us. “We’d better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow . . . to put up the tent for the wedding,” she explains, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looks exhausted.   “Millamant’s Magic Marquees . . . they’re very good, Bill’s escorting them. . . . You’d better stay inside while they’re here, Harry. I must say it does complicate organizing a wedding, having all these security spells around the place.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Harry humbly.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, dear!” she says at once. “I didn’t mean — well, your safety’s much more important! Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you how you want to celebrate your birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it’s an important day. . . .”

  “I don’t want a fuss,” says Harry quickly. “Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine. . . . It’s the day before the wedding. . . .”

  “Oh, well, if you’re sure, dear. I’ll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?”

  “That’d be great,” says Harry. “But please don’t go to loads of trouble.”

  “Not at all, not at all . . . It’s no trouble. . . .”

  We watch in silence as she starts hanging up the sheets to dry, and I feel a lump form in my throat. It’s going to kill her when we’re gone. We’re going to have to win, to make sure all this pain that we’re putting the people we love in, will be worth it.


	4. The Will of Albus Dumbledore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 4- The Will of Albus Dumbledore

 

  The day of the Harry’s birthday dawned surprisingly cool. I could hear a light breeze outside the window of the room I shared with Ginny. The weight of what’s going to be happening soon was starting to get to me. I was not going to be seeing Mum, Dad, Ginny, Fred, George, Bill, and Luka again for a long time. I hadn’t realized it at the time but I had grown used to the comfort of my new life, and I wasn’t so ready to go and change it quite yet.

  I tune in to the heavy breathing and soft snores coming from Ginny and Hermione below me, and tighten my hand into a fist. That’s why I have to do this. I can’t just abandon this mission for it will put the people that I love at risk. There is going to be no world left for them to live in if I don’t help Harry defeat Voldemort.

  With that grim thought, I slowly and carefully climb out of bed, and change into some clothes and grab the wrapped package that I have for Harry. I’m a little nervous about giving it to him. I know its not a traditional present, but seeing as we’re going to be away for Merlin knows how long, I thought that this gift would be something to help put everything in perspective.

  As I’m sneaking out the door Hermione and Ginny both wake up with unhappy groans. I shake my head and blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the light that’s in the hallway. Suddenly I find myself sprawled on the ground, blinking up at Harry and Ron in surprise. There is an embarrassed blush on Harry’s face.

  “Sorry Jamie, I didn’t see you there.” Harry stammers, pulling me back up to my feet by the arm.

  “S’okay Harry, though you could have just asked for your present.” I grin holding out the wrapped parcel to him.

  “Go on Harry I’ve been hearing nothin’ but worry and excitement about this damn gift, and she won’t even bloody tell me what’s in it. My own sister!” Ron says casting me a baleful glare. I just bat my eyelashes back at him and turn my attention to Harry as he cautious starts unwrapping the gift.

  Once the paper falls away to the floor, he’s left with medium sized leather book in his hands. There’s no inscription on the front or the spine, so it confuses him. “You got him a book?” Ron says giving me a disappointed look.

  “Not like you didn’t get him one right back, Mr. How to pick up Witches.” I shoot back defensively. “Anyway Harry, open it.”

  Harry pries open the cover looking a little dubious, but then his mouth falls open. On the first page there is a moving drawing of Harry’s mum and dad. I asked Sirius for a picture of them for Harry before he died, and I forgot to give him the photo, so I decided to copy it in my hand and put it in the book.

  “How—” Harry says his voice chocked.

  “Sirius.” I answer simply. Harry stares at the picture for a second longer before flipping the page. There is another magical drawing of Hagrid in full belly laugh with Fang’s head on his knee. The next contains a picture of Remus and Tonks together cuddled on the couch, sharing smiles and intimate words.

  I actually managed to add a picture of Mad-Eye from when he was still alive sitting at the kitchen table, taking swigs from his flask, his magic eye spinning madly. The pictures start evolving into familiar faces. There’s Luna, and Neville. Then comes the throng of familiar redheads. Bill and Fleur pouring over last minute wedding plans, their eyes always tracking back to each other.

  Then comes, Charlie showing off one of his more recent burns from a particularly hard to train dragon. Fred and George standing proudly inside of the business of magical chaos and mayhem they’ve created. There’s one of Luka grinning madly with a splotch of ink on his cheek.

  Next comes one of Ron hanging in the air on his broomstick a smug grin on his face. The next is of Hermione a pile of knitted hats surrounding her everywhere, she’s frazzled but happy. I wasn’t so sure about the picture of me, but the book wouldn’t work if I weren’t in it, so there is a picture of me as well playing with Dionysus and Pip, with Ariana laughing while Scribbles sits on her head.

  Then there is the picture of Mum and Dad smiling while dancing to the radio in the living room. The picture that I spent the longest time agonizing over was Ginny’s. I know that even though the pair of them are broken up, I know that she still loves him, and that Harry definitely still loves her.

  So I chose the image that I thought, would bring that feeling to the front. Ginny is in her scarlet Gryffindor Quidditch robes, and there is a fire alight in her eyes, with a quaffle firmly wrapped under her arm. I can see a blush spread across Harry’s cheeks and I know that I picked well.

  The last picture I wasn’t quite sure if I should add or not. I see how the breath catches in Harry’s chest as he sees it. There is Professor Dumbledore. He is sitting behind his desk with his half moon glasses twinkling, and there is a small knowing smile on his face.

  “What is this?” Harry asks, his voice thick. I shuffle my feet, suddenly feeling a little awkward.

  “Well I started on this back around Christmas time. It was just drawings at first, but then when I realized that we were going to be leaving, and not going back to school— I figured that there was going to come a time when you were going to need something to make you remember why we’re doing all this. I thought that if you had pictures of everyone, then you could remember that it’s them that we’re fighting for, for all our future.” I say softly.

  Ron’s mouth is hanging open a little bit, and Harry stares at me wordlessly for a few seconds, before wrapping me up in a hug. We hold each other tight for a moment, before letting go.

  “One question though, why is the last picture just of me standing here, with a bunch of blank pages afterward?” Harry asks.

  “Well, your story isn’t done Harry, where we go from here is up to you.” I say with a slight grin.

  “You’d best give that to Hermione mate, so she can pack it. You wouldn’t want Mum seeing that and getting even more bonkers.” Ron says. Harry nods his head, and disappears back up the stairs to Ron and Luka’s room. When he comes back down we descend the rest of the way to the bottom of the stairs and into the kitchen.

  When we arrive in the kitchen we find a pile of presents waiting on the table. Bill and Monsieur Delacour are finishing their breakfasts, while Mum stands chatting to them over the frying pan.

  “Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Harry,” says Mum, beaming at him. “He had to leave early for work, but he’ll be back for dinner. That’s our present on top.”

  Harry sits down, takes the square parcel she has indicated, and unwraps it. Inside is a watch very like the one Mum and Dad had given Ron and Luka for their seventeenth; it is gold, with stars circling around the face instead of hands.

  “It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age,” says Mum, watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. “I’m afraid that one isn’t new like Ron’s, it was actually my brother Fabian’s and he wasn’t terribly careful with his possessions, it’s a bit dented on the back, but —”

  The rest of her speech is lost; Harry has got up and hugged her. She pats his cheek clumsily when he releases her, and then waves her wand in a slightly random way, causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying pan onto the floor.

  “Happy birthday, Harry!” says Hermione, hurrying into the kitchen and adding her own present to the top of the pile. “It’s not much, but I hope you like it. What did you get him?” she adds to Ron, who seems not to hear her.

  “Come on, then, open Hermione’s!” says Ron.                                                             

  She has bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other packages contain an enchanted razor from Bill and Fleur (“Ah yes, zis will give you ze smoothest shave you will ever ’ave,” Monsieur Delacour assures him, “but you must tell it clearly what you want . . . ozzerwise you might find you ’ave a leetle less hair zan you would like. . . .”), chocolates from the Delacours, and an enormous box of the latest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred and George.

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I do not linger at the table, as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and Gabrielle make the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.

  “I’ll pack these for you,” Hermione says brightly, taking Harry’s presents out of his arms as the four of us head back upstairs. “I’m nearly done, I’m just waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of the wash, Ron —”

  Ron’s splutter is interrupted by the opening of a door on the first-floor landing.

  “Harry, will you come in here a moment?”

  It is Ginny. Ron comes to an abrupt halt, but Hermione takes him by the elbow and tugs him on up the stairs. I give both of them a small smile before following. When we get to Ron’s room I see Luka sitting on the bed with a surprisingly grave look on his face. Hermione quickly grabs my present for Harry off of his bed so that she can pack it away with the rest of the presents.

  Luka’s eyes find me when we enter and they don’t leave. I can tell from the seriousness of this gaze that he’s not happy about something. He gets up and leaves the room, but not before giving me a pointed look.

  I glance at Hermione and Ron. “I should go deal with this. Meet you guys later.” I say hurrying out of the room and down the steps, out of the house, across the yard, and into the beginnings of the forest.

  “Okay, you’ve got me out here.” I say crossing my arms over my chest, an uneasy feeling filling my gut.

  “You’ve finally done it.” Luka says.

  “I’ve finally done what?” I ask not getting where this is going.

  “You’ve finally gone and done something that I’m not going to be able to protect you from.” Luka says running his hand through his hair, messing it up.

  “Luka, I have been in plenty of situations where you weren’t there to protect me.” I say calmly, knowing that this is just my brother panicking.

  “Yes, but at least I knew that I was going to see you again. You were always somewhere in the castle, and when you weren’t I went with you!” He cries. I sigh and rub my forehead where I feel the beginning of a headache coming on.

  “Luka…” I say not even sure how to respond to this at the moment.

  “See you don’t even have a good response to this! What you’re planning on doing is insanity! You four are nowhere near prepared for the challenges that they are going to pose. You’ll be killed before you can even raise your wand, then I’ll be the last of the Pendragon name.” Luka growls harshly.

  I flinch at the accusation. “I am not as helpless as you think that I am Luka, I’ve been facing and surviving life and death situations since I was eleven. Last time I checked that was more than you.” I hiss pulling myself away from my brother and taking a few steps back.

  “I am not weak just because I don’t go foolishly looking for danger.” Luka snaps. I spin back around to glare at him.

  “I never said that. I’m just saying that I am used to this. I am ready to accept the consequences that come along with this journey. Harry needs me.” I tell him firmly.

  “I need you! Does that mean nothing? Does Ariana mean nothing either? You’re abandoning her too. At the rate you’re going you’ll have killed Mum as well, do you really not care about any of us?” Luka demands. I wince at the blow. He really thinks that I don’t care about any of them?

  If I don’t do this with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, then the rest of them might as well be dead. “Don’t you dare accuse me of not caring for them. I love Mum and Ariana is one of the most important people to me in the world alongside you. The whole reason I am doing this is for everyone. You don’t have to see it for it to be true Luka. You should think about this before I leave, because I am going to be leaving Luka one way or another. We aren’t kids anymore, the future isn’t going to wait for us to be ready anymore.” I say and walk away.

  I’m too far away to hear Luka’s soft “I know.”

  To my surprise I watch Ron storming across the yard with Harry following him, and Hermione trailing the two of them looking worried. I quickly kick into a light jog so that I can catch up to them, and be there in case this is going to involve intervention. This is not a promising start to our quest, and we haven’t even left yet.

  “You ditched her. What are you doing now, messing her around?” Ron says positively seething. I’m confused for half a second before Harry responds.

  “I’m not messing her around,” says Harry, as Hermione catches up with us.

  “Ron —” She tries.

  But Ron holds up a hand to silence her.

  “She was really cut up when you ended it —” Ron says.

  “So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn’t because I wanted to.” Harry defends himself.

  “Yeah, but you go snogging her now and she’s just going to get her hopes up again —”

  “She’s not an idiot, she knows it can’t happen, she’s not expecting us to — to end up married, or —”

  “If you keep groping her every chance you get —”

  “It won’t happen again,” says Harry harshly. The day is cloudless, but even I feel as if there’s a chill in the air. “Okay?”

  Ron looks half resentful, half sheepish; he rocks backwards and forwards on his feet for a moment, then says, “Right then, well, that’s . . . yeah.”

  That’s the end of the conversation and the four of us stand about in silence for a minute or so.

  “How’d your conversation with Luka go?” Ron asks suddenly turning to me. I flinch thinking about the accusations that poured out from my brother.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I say quickly trying to keep my composure firm in the face of my longest and truest friends. I can tell by the worried look on Hermione’s face, the understanding look on Harry’s, and the dumbfounded gleam in Ron’s eyes that they understand more or less.

  Charlie’s arrival relives everybody for it provides the perfect distraction from the tensions running around the house guised under over enthusiastic cheer from Mum. Watching her force Charlie into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and announce that he is about to get a proper haircut causes more than a few laughs.

  As Harry’s birthday dinner would have stretched the Burrow’s kitchen to breaking point even before the arrival of Charlie, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid, several tables are placed end to end in the garden. Fred, George, and I bewitch a number of purple lanterns, all emblazoned with a large number 17, to hang in midair over the guests.   Thanks to Mum’s ministrations, George’s wound is neat and clean, but I am not yet used to the dark hole in the side of his head, despite the twins’ many jokes about it.     Hermione makes purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drapes them artistically over the trees and bushes.

  “Nice,” says Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione turns the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. “You’ve really got an eye for that sort of thing.”

  “Thank you, Ron!” says Hermione, looking both pleased and a little confused. I role my eyes knowing that something is up, because if there is one thing that Ron isn’t its observant about girls, and in Hermione’s case particularly.

  “Out of the way, out of the way!” sings Mum, coming through the gate with what appears to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds later I realize that it is Harry’s birthday cake, which she is suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake has finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry says,

  “That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she says fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gives Harry the thumbs-up and mouths, Good one.

  By seven o’clock all the guests have arrived, led into the house by Fred and George, who waited for them at the end of the lane. Hagrid has honored the occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy brown suit. Although Lupin smiles as he shakes Harry’s hand, I he looks rather unhappy. It is all very odd; Tonks, beside him, looks simply radiant.

  “Happy birthday, Harry,” she says, hugging him tightly.

  “Seventeen, eh!” says Hagrid as he accepts a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred.   “Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?”

  “Vaguely,” says Harry, grinning up at him. “Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?”

  “I forge’ the details,” Hagrid chortles. “All righ’, Ron, Jamie, Hermione?”

  “We’re fine,” says Hermione. “How are you?”

  “Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn unicorns, I’ll show yeh when yeh get back —” Harry avoides Ron’s, Hermione’s, and my gazes as Hagrid rummages in his pocket. “Here, Harry — couldn’ think what ter get yeh, but then I remembered this.” He pulls out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch with a long string, evidently intended to be worn around the neck. “Mokeskin. Hide anythin’ in there an’ no one but the owner can get it out. They’re rare, them.”

  “Hagrid, thanks!” Harry says a happy gleam in his eye. That will be very handy for our trip indeed.

  “’S’nothin’,” says Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hand. “An’ there’s Charlie! Always liked him — hey! Charlie!”

  Charlie approaches, running his hand slightly ruefully over his new, brutally short haircut. He is shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of burns and scratches up his muscley arms.

  “Hi, Hagrid, how’s it going?”

  “Bin meanin’ ter write fer ages. How’s Norbert doin’?”

  “Norbert?” Charlie laughs. “The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now.”

  “Wha — Norbert’s a girl?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Charlie.

  “How can you tell?” asks Hermione.

  “They’re a lot more vicious,” says Charlie. Ron snorts at that, and I elbow him sharply in the ribs, causing him to grunt in pain. Charlie looks over his shoulder and drops his voice. “Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum’s getting edgy.”

  We all look over at Mum. She is trying to talk to Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly at the gate.

  “I think we’d better start without Arthur,” she calls to the garden at large after a moment or two. “He must have been held up at — oh!”

  We all see it at the same time: a streak of light that comes flying across the yard and onto the table, where it resolves itself into a bright silver weasel, which stands on its hind legs and speaks with Dad’s voice.

  “Minister of Magic coming with me.”

  The Patronus dissolves into thin air, leaving Fleur’s family peering in astonishment at the place where it has vanished.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” says Lupin at once. “Harry — I’m sorry — I’ll explain another time —”

  He seizes Tonks’s wrist and pulls her away; they reach the fence, climb over it, and vanish from sight. Mum looks bewildered.

  “The Minister — but why — ? I don’t understand —”

  But there is no time to discuss the matter; a second later, Dad appears out of thin air at the gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, instantly recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair.

  The two newcomers march across the yard towards the garden and the lantern-lit table, where everybody sits in silence, watching them draw closer. As Scrimgeour comes within range of the lantern light, I see that he looks much older than the last time we met, scraggy and grim.

  “Sorry to intrude,” says Scrimgeour, as he limps to a halt before the table. “Especially as I can see that I am gate-crashing a party.”

  His eyes linger for a moment on the giant Snitch cake.

  “Many happy returns.”

  “Thanks,” says Harry.

  “I require a private word with you,” Scrimgeour goes on. “Also with Mr. Ronald Weasley, Miss Hermione Granger, and Miss Jamie Pendragon.”

  “Us?” says Ron, sounding surprised. “Why us?”

  “I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private,” says Scrimgeour. “Is there such a place?” he demands of Dad.

  “Yes, of course,” says Dad, who looks nervous. “The, er, sitting room, why don’t you use that?”

  “You can lead the way,” Scrimgeour says to Ron. “There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur.”

  I give a confused and worried glance to Harry and Hermione since Ron is looking particularly pale at the demands of the Minister.

  I see Dad exchange a worried look with Mum as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stand up. As we lead the way back to the house in silence, I know that the other three are thinking the same as I am: Scrimgeour must, somehow, have learned that the four of us are planning to drop out of Hogwarts.

  Scrimgeour does not speak as we all pass through the messy kitchen and into the Burrow’s sitting room. Although the garden has been full of soft golden evening light, it is already dark in here: Harry flicks his wand at the oil lamps as he enters in front of me and they illuminate the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sits himself in the sagging armchair that Dad normally occupies, leaving Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once we have done so, Scrimgeour speaks.

  “I have some questions for the four of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you three” — he points at Harry, Hermione, and me — “can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” says Harry, while Hermione nods vigorously, I’m too busy wondering what this could possibly be about. “You can speak to us together, or not at all.”

  Scrimgeour gives Harry a cold, appraising look. I have the impression that the Minister is wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.

  “Very well then, together,” he says, shrugging. He clears his throat. “I am here, as I’m sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.”

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I look at one another.

  “Ariana never mentioned this.” I say answering their unasked question.

  “A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?” Scrimgeour says.

  “A-all of us?” says Ron. “Me, Jamie, and Hermione too?”

  “Yes, all of —”

  But Harry interrupts.

  “Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” says Hermione, before Scrimgeour can answer. “They wanted to examine whatever he’s left us. You had no right to do that!” she says, and her voice trembles slightly.

  “I had every right,” says Scrimgeour dismissively. “The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will —”

  “That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts,” says Hermione, “and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?”

  “Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?” asks Scrimgeour. I can tell that he’s equal parts annoyed and impressed with my best friend.

  “No, I’m not,” retorts Hermione. “I’m hoping to do some good in the world!”

  Ron laughs. Scrimgeour’s eyes flicker towards him and away again as Harry speaks.

  “So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can’t think of a pretext to keep them?”

  “No, it’ll be because the thirty-one days are up,” says Hermione at once. “They can’t keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they’re dangerous. Right?”

  “Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?” asks Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione. Ron looks startled.

  “Me? Not — not really . . . It was always Harry who . . .”

  Ron looks around at Harry, Hermione, and me, to see Hermione giving him a stop-talking-now! sort of look, but the damage is done: Scrimgeour looks as though he has heard exactly what he expected, and wanted, to hear. He swoops like a bird of prey upon Ron’s answer.

  “If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions — his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects — were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?”

  “I . . . dunno,” says Ron. “I . . . when I say we weren’t close . . . I mean, I think he liked me. . . .”

  “You’re being modest, Ron,” says Hermione. “Dumbledore was very fond of you.”

  I think that is stretching the truth a little. The only one out of the four of us that Dumbledore honestly spent the most time with was Harry. I only knew the man as well as I did, because I grew up around him and Ariana.

  However, Scrimgeour does not seem to be listening. He puts his hand inside his cloak and draws out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removes a scroll of parchment which he unrolls and reads aloud.

  “‘The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’ . . . Yes, here we are . . . ‘To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.’”

  Scrimgeour takes from the bag an object, it looks something like a silver cigarette lighter, but it has the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Scrimgeour leans forward and passes the Deluminator to Ron, who takes it and turns it over in his fingers, looking stunned.

  “That is a valuable object,” says Scrimgeour, watching Ron. “It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?”

  Ron shakes his head, looking bewildered.

  “Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students,” Scrimgeour perseveres. “Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you four. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?”

  “Put out lights, I s’pose,” mumbles Ron. “What else could I do with it?”

  Evidently Scrimgeour has no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turns back to Dumbledore’s will.

  “‘To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.’”

  Scrimgeour now pulls out of the bag a small book that looks as ancient as the copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding is stained and peeling in places. Hermione takes it from Scrimgeour without a word. She holds the book in her lap and gazes at it. I see that the title is in runes; I never learned to read them. As I look, a tear splashes onto the embossed symbols. I reach over and lace my fingers through hers in support.

  “Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?” asks Scrimgeour.

  “He . . . he knew I liked books,” says Hermione in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.

  “But why that particular book?”

  “I don’t know. He must have thought I’d enjoy it.”

  “Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?”

  “No, I didn’t,” says Hermione, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “And if the Ministry hasn’t found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will.”

  She suppresses a sob. We are wedged together so tightly that Ron has difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione’s shoulders. Scrimgeour turns back to the will.

  “To Miss Jamie Alexis Pendragon I leave, a Journal of Arthur Pendragon, it should have been returned to her long ago so may it guide her well.”

  I watch as Scrimgeour pulls out another small brown leather lined book with fancy but faded gold lettering on it. I manage to get my other hand free to take it from the man. The writing is fancy with swooping letters, I flip the book open, surprised to find that only a few of the pages are written in with that swooping hand, but the rest are woefully blank.

  “As much as that belongs to the public—” He starts.

  “Its my family’s. We hardly have anything left of our heritage that is truly ours anymore, so we deserve to have some of his words.” I interrupt quickly trying to talk around the lump that has formed in my throat. Dumbledore always knew that I felt at a loss at times with being a Pendragon. It’s a lot to live up to, and sometimes the resemblance is hard to see especially when you’re the only girl born into the Pendragon line since Arthur.

  Scrimgeour looks unhappy with my response but clicks his mouth shut, and turns back to the will in front of him, while I clutch King’s Arthur’s journal tightly.

 “‘To Harry James Potter,’” he reads, “‘I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.’”

  As Scrimgeour pulls out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, and I can tell by the look on Harry’s face that he was expecting something different.

  “Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?” asks Scrimgeour.

  “No idea,” says Harry. “For the reasons you just read out, I suppose . . . to remind me what you can get if you . . . persevere and whatever it was.”

  “You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?”

  “I suppose so,” says Harry. “What else could it be?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” says Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk is really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towers ghostly white over the hedge.

  “I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch,” Scrimgeour says to Harry. “Why is that?”

  Hermione laughs derisively, and even I can’t help but roll my eyes at this now.

  “Oh, it can’t be a reference to the fact Harry’s a great Seeker, that’s way too obvious,” she says. “There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!”

  “I don’t think there’s anything hidden in the icing,” says Scrimgeour, “but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I’m sure?”

  Harry shrugs. Hermione, however, answers: I’m pretty sure that it’s a habit of hers now.

  “Because Snitches have flesh memories,” she says. Well now I remember reading something about that somewhere, too bad my memory isn’t as ironclad as Hermione’s.

  “What?” says Harry and Ron together.

  “Correct,” says Scrimgeour. “A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch” — he holds up the tiny golden ball — “will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you.”

  “You don’t say anything,” says Scrimgeour. “Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?”

  “No,” says Harry, looking worried, and rightfully so, if Dumbledore had indeed left him something.

  “Take it,” says Scrimgeour quietly.

  Harry meets the Minister’s yellow eyes and it’s a stare down for a few seconds. He held out his hand, and Scrimgeour leans forward again and places the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry’s palm.

  Nothing happens. As Harry’s fingers close around the Snitch, its tired wings flutter and still. Scrimgeour, Ron, Hermione, and I continue to gaze avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still hoping it might transform in some way.

  “That was dramatic,” says Harry coolly. Ron, Hermione, and I laugh.

  “That’s all, then, is it?” asks Hermione, making to prise herself off the sofa.

  “Not quite,” says Scrimgeour, who looks bad-tempered now. “Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter.”

  “What is it?” asks Harry, excitement rekindling.

  Scrimgeour does not bother to read from the will this time.

  “The sword of Godric Gryffindor,” he says. I’m almost certain that I don’t hear him right.

  Hermione and Ron both stiffen. Harry looks around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but Scrimgeour does not pull the sword from the leather pouch, which in any case looks much too small to contain it. I have a feeling that this bequest isn’t going to be honored.

  “So where is it?” Harry asks suspiciously.

  “Unfortunately,” says Scrimgeour, “that sword was not Dumbledore’s to give away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs —”

  “It belongs to Harry!” says Hermione hotly. “It chose him, he was the one who found it, it came to him out of the Sorting Hat —”

  “According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor,” says Scrimgeour. “That does not make it the exclusive property of Mr. Potter, whatever Dumbledore may have decided.” Scrimgeour scratches his badly shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry. “Why do you think — ?”

  “— Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?” says Harry, struggling to keep his temper. “Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall.”

  “This is not a joke, Potter!” growls Scrimgeour. “Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

  “Interesting theory,” says Harry. “Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what you’ve been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying — I was nearly one of them — Voldemort chased me across three counties, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there’s been no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!”

  The silence is thick for a few moments.

  “You go too far!” shouts Scrimgeour, standing up; Harry jumps to his feet too. I quickly follow, feeling like I’m going to have to intervene soon. Scrimgeour limps toward Harry and jabs him hard in the chest with the point of his wand: It singes a hole in Harry’s T-shirt like a lit cigarette.

  “Oi!” says Ron, jumping up and raising his own wand, mirroring mine, but Harry says,

  “No! D’you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?”

  “Remembered you’re not at school, have you?” says Scrimgeour, breathing hard into Harry’s face. “Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It’s time you learned some respect!”

  “It’s time you earned it.” I break in deadly serious, but hoping to take the attention off my best friend all the same.

  The floor trembles; there is a sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room bursts open and Mum and Dad run in.

  “We — we thought we heard —” begins Dad, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and the Minister virtually nose to nose.

  “— raised voices,” pants Mum.

  Scrimgeour takes a couple of steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he has made in Harry’s T-shirt. He seems to regret his loss of temper.

  “It — it was nothing,” he growls. “I . . . regret your attitude,” he says, looking Harry full in the face once more. “You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you — what Dumbledore — desired. We ought to be working together.”

  “I don’t like your methods, Minister,” says Harry. “Remember?”

  For the second time, he raises his right fist and displays to Scrimgeour the scars that still show white on the back of it, spelling I must not tell lies. Harry nods to my hand as well, and I only clench my fist in response. Scrimgeour’s expression hardens. He turns away without another word and limps from the room. Mum hurries after him; I hear her stop at the back door. After a minute or so she calls, “He’s gone!”

  “What did he want?” Dad asks, looking around at Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me as Mum comes hurrying back to us.

  “To give us what Dumbledore left us,” says Harry. “They’ve only just released the contents of his will.”

  “After they had a good look around the stuff themselves.” I mutter darkly.

  Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the four objects Scrimgeour have given us are passed from hand to hand. Everyone exclaims over the Deluminator, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and the private words of Arthur, and lament the fact that Scrimgeour refused to pass on the sword, but none of them can offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore would leave Harry an old Snitch. As Dad examined the Deluminator for the third or fourth time, Mum says tentatively, “Harry, dear, everyone’s awfully hungry, we didn’t like to start without you. . . . Shall I serve dinner now?”

  We all eat rather hurriedly and then, after a hasty chorus of “Happy Birthday” and much gulping of cake, the party breaks up. Hagrid, who is invited to the wedding the following day, but is far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, leaves to set up a tent for himself in a neighboring field.

  “Meet us upstairs,” Harry whispers to Hermione and me, while we help Mum restore the garden to its normal state. “After everyone’s gone to bed.”

  After almost a half hour of cleaning up, Hermione and I pass Ginny and Luka playing a game of Wizarding Chess in the living room on our way up to the boys’ room. When we finally get to the top of the stairs and push into the room, I heave a soft sigh as I push the door closed behind me.

  Hermione turns back to the door.

  “Muffliato,” she whispers, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.

  “Thought you didn’t approve of that spell?” says Ron.

  “Times change,” say Hermione. “Now, show us that Deluminator.”

  Ron obliges at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicks it. The solitary lamp we have lit go out at once.

  “The thing is,” whispers Hermione through the dark, “we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.”

  There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flies back to the ceiling and illuminates us all once more.

  “It couldn’t do that as quickly.” I say impressed with the device.

  “Still, it’s cool,” says Ron, a little defensively. “And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!”

  “I know, but surely he wouldn’t have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out the lights!”

  “D’you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he’d left us?” asks Harry.

  “Definitely,” says Hermione. “He couldn’t tell us in the will why he was leaving us these things, but that still doesn’t explain . . .”

  “. . . why he couldn’t have given us a hint when he was alive?” asks Ron.

  “He was really busy and quite frankly distracted last year, he didn’t even have that much time for Ariana, and he would spend hours with her.” I say thinking to my girlfriend, and wishing not for the first time, that she was able to show up tonight, before tomorrow.

  “Well, exactly,” says Hermione, now flicking through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. “If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you’d think he’d have let us know why . . . unless he thought it was obvious?”

  “Thought wrong, then, didn’t he?” says Ron. “I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch — what the hell was that about?”

  “I’ve no idea,” says Hermione. “When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something was going to happen!”

  “Yeah, well,” says Harry, looking rather smug. “I wasn’t going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Hermione.

  “The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?” says Harry. “Don’t you remember?” I can’t help but break out laughing, remembering the whole event.

  Hermione looks simply bemused. Ron, however, gasps, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he finds his voice.

  “That was the one you nearly swallowed!”

  “Exactly,” says Harry, and looking nervous, he presses his mouth to the Snitch.

  It does not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment well up inside all of us: Harry lowers the golden sphere, but then Hermione cries out.

  “Writing! There’s writing on it, quick, look!”

  “Merlin’s beard…” I breathe out in wonder.

  Harry nearly drops the Snitch in surprise and excitement. Hermione is quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds before there was nothing, are five words written in the thin, slanting handwriting that I recognize as Dumbledore’s:

I open at the close.

 

  I have barely read them when the words vanish again.

  “‘I open at the close . . .’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asks sounding thoroughly confused.

  Hermione and Ron shake their heads, looking blank. I shrug my shoulders, tightening my grip on Arthur’s book that I managed to drag back from Luka, after he almost stole it.

  “I open at the close . . . at the close . . . I open at the close . . .”

  But no matter how often we repeat the words, with many different inflections, we are unable to wring any more meaning from us, and I have successfully given myself a headache.

  “And the sword,” says Ron finally, when we have at last abandoned our attempts to divine meaning in the Snitch’s inscription. “Why did he want Harry to have the sword?”

  “And why couldn’t he just have told me?” Harry says quietly. “It was there, it was right there on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn’t he just give it to me then?”

  “Maybe he just thought that you weren’t prepared yet…” I say not even liking the sound of my words myself when they come out.

  “That’s still not an excuse.” Hermione says firmly. I sigh.

  “I know.” I groan slumping down next to her and resting my head against her shoulder.

  “And as for this book,” says Hermione, “The Tales of Beedle the Bard . . . I’ve never even heard of them!”

  “You’ve never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?” says Ron incredulously.   “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not!” says Hermione in surprise. “Do you know them, then?”

  “Well, of course I do!”

  “Ron they were raised by muggles.” I say, rolling my eyes at his blind stupidity sometimes.

  “Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to be Beedle’s, aren’t they? ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune’ . . . ‘The Wizard and the Hopping Pot’ . . . ‘Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump’ . . .”

  “Excuse me?” says Hermione, giggling. “What was that last one?”

  “Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up by Muggles like Jamie said!” says Hermione. “We didn’t hear stories like that when we were little, we heard ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ and ‘Cinderella’ —”

  “What’s that, an illness?” asks Ron.

  “It does sound rather frightening…” I say looking at Hermione with mild horror.

  “So these are children’s stories?” asks Hermione, bending again over the runes.

  “Yeah,” says Ron uncertainly, “I mean, that’s just what you hear, you know, that all these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the original versions.”

  “But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?”

  Something creaks downstairs.

  “Probably just Charlie, now Mum’s asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair,” says Ron nervously.

  “All the same, we should get to bed,” whispers Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.”

  “No,” agrees Ron. “A brutal quadruple murder by the bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of a damper on the wedding. I’ll get the lights.”

  Hermione and I sneak out of the room and down the stairs as quickly as we can and slip into our room. The lights are off, but I can’t hear the heavy breathing of Ginny, so I know that she’s still awake.

  “You four have fun at your secret meeting?” She asks softly, her voice carrying in the still room. Hermione and I make our way to our beds, changing into pajamas as we go.

  “Hush now Ginny, tomorrow is going to be a big day.” I say, climbing into the bed beside her. She turns into me, and buries her head into my shoulder. My heart clenches as she tries to hold in a sob.

  “I know— I’m just going to miss you.” Ginny sobs, her tears beginning to wet my shoulder. I wrap my arms around my sister and hold her tightly.

  “I know, I know… me too.” I reply, shushing her until all that’s left are her steady even breaths of sleep. Just as I’m beginning to fall off to sleep myself the soft sob of Hermione breaks through the silent air.

  Yes, it’s definitely going to be a long day.


	5. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 5- The Wedding

 

  Three o’clock on the following afternoon finds Harry, Ron, Fred, George, Luka, and I standing outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Harry has taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and is now the double of a redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from whom Fred stole hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan is to introduce Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him.

  All five of the boys are clutching seating plans, so that they can help show people to the right seats. I am hiding out with them attempting to avoid the frightening show that is Mum, Fleur, and Mrs. Delacour. Poor Hermione and Ginny are trapped inside with them. A host of white-robed waiters have arrived an hour earlier, along with a golden-jacketed band, and all of these wizards are currently sitting a short distance away under a tree; I can see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot.

  Behind me, the entrance to the marquee reveals rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles are entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George have fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur will shortly become husband and wife. Outside, butterflies and bees are hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. Harry is looking rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he is affecting is slightly fatter than him, and he looks uncomfortable in his dress robes on this hot summer day.

  “At least you’re not wearing a dress.” I grumble fiddling with the blue straps of my dress, still rather unsure why I have to wear a dress when I’m not even a part of the ceremony.

  “When I get married,” says Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, “I won’t be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll put a full Body-Bind Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”

  “That will be the day.” Luka snorts, and I almost kick myself for nodding in agreement with him.

  “She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” says George. “Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him? Oh blimey, brace yourselves — here they come, look.”

  Brightly colored figures are appearing, one by one, out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession has formed, which begins to snake its way up through the garden towards the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds flutter on the witches’ hats, while precious gems glitter from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of excited chatter grows louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approachs the tent.

  “Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” says George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll need help understanding our English customs, I’ll look after them. . . .”

  “Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” says Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading the procession, he says, “Here — permettez-moi to assister vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggle and allow him to escort them inside. George is left to deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron takes charge of Mr. Weasley’s old Ministry colleague Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fall to Harry and Luka’s lot.

  I’m left standing outside the marquee looking at all the guests trying to calm the churning worry in my stomach. After today there won’t be much time left. We will have stayed as long as we promised each other we would.

  “You do know that this is a wedding right? A happy occasion?” A shiver runs down my spine at the warm breath against my ear. The familiar voice, brings an aching longing to the front of my mind that I had been desperately trying to ignore.

  A small gasp leaves me, as I turn on the spot and throw myself into the arms of my girlfriend. A small surprised chuckle escapes her, but she is ready to catch me anyway. Ariana’s scent of vanilla and faint coffee greets me as I bury my nose into her shoulder.

  I can hear the pick up of whispers from the guests nearby, but I block them out, determined to not let their nosiness get in the way of Ariana and my reunion. “You’d think that you haven’t seen me in years.” Ariana says a small hitch in her voice.

  “Just shut up and let me hold you.” I whisper, tightening my hold on her.

  “We still have today Jamie.” She says softly, though I can hear the sadness tingeing her voice.

  “That’s not long enough…” I whine, not being able to help myself. Ariana’s chuckle rumbles through her chest.

  “Come now, I want to see those pretty eyes of yours.” She says jostling me a little to pry me away from her. Reluctantly I release my hold on the girl and meet her brown eyes that always seem to radiate warmth just for me.

  “I’m going to miss you.” I admit quietly so that no one around us can hear. Ariana’s eyes shine with unspilt tears, but she shakes her head sharply letting her specially made blond curls fly.

  “Don’t say that. Let’s make the most out of this day. I’m attending a der friend’s wedding, on the arm of the girl that I absolutely love. Even better she actually put on a dress for me, and we’re going to dance,” Ariana says pulling me back in closer to her, “and we’re going to cause quite the scandal for all those stuffy witches and wizards when we kiss.”

  I can’t pull away from her hypnotizing eyes; they draw me in closer, until our lips meet in a soft kiss. Like usual all of my worried melt away with that kiss. The whole world melts away from me again, and the shocked gasps of the few guests and family members who still didn’t know about the wild lesbian daughter were informed rather intimately with the fact.

  “You two definitely know how to cause a scene. Aunt Muriel nearly had a hippogriff at the sight of you snogging.” Ron’s amused voice breaks into my moment of blissful happiness. Reluctantly I release Ariana’s lips and turn my glare to my brother.

  “It’s a free country. I can do whatever I like. Besides, don’t you hate Aunt Muriel?” I reply crossly, feeling Ariana lacing her fingers with mine.

  Harry joins us at this moment looking exhausted and more than a little bit annoyed.

  “Hello Harry, nice costume.” Ariana says with a happy twinkle in her eye. Harry as ‘Barry’ jumps in shock.

  “You could tell it was me too?” Harry splutters looking rather put out that apparently so many people have seen through his disguise.

  “You’re scowl is rather distinguishing.” Ariana says with a giggle. That causes him to start pouting and Ariana’s giggles to increase. Ron on the other hand has not let go of the topic of Aunt Muriel.

  “Nightmare, Muriel is,” says Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. “She used to come for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at dinner. Dad always says she’ll have written them out of her will — like they care, they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they’re going. . . . Wow,” he adds, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione comes hurrying towards us. “You look great!”

  “Always the tone of surprise,” says Hermione, though she smiles, and give Ariana a hug of greeting. Hermione is wearing a floaty, lilac-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair is sleek and shiny. “Your Great-Aunt Muriel doesn’t agree, I just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She said, ‘Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?’ and then, ‘Bad posture and skinny ankles.’”

  “Don’t take it personally, she’s rude to everyone,” says Ron.

  “First time she met Luka and I she called us needy riff raff, and congratulated Mum and Dad on finally doing something that would make them more money.” I say crossly, a frown deeply etched on my face now. Ariana pulls me into her side again and kisses my cheek lovingly.

  “Talking about Muriel?” inquires George, reemerging from the marquee with Fred. “Yeah, she’s just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at weddings.”

  “Wasn’t he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-four hours later?” asks Hermione.

  “Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end,” concedes George.

  “But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of the party,” says Fred. “He used to down an entire bottle of firewhisky, then run onto the dance floor, hoist up his robes, and start pulling bunches of flowers out of his —”

  “Yes, he sounds a real charmer,” says Hermione, while Harry and I roar with laughter. I even hear Ariana snicker against my neck from where she hid her face to laugh.

  “Never married, for some reason,” says Ron.

  “You amaze me,” says Hermione shaking her head.

  We are all laughing so much that none of us notice the latecomer, a dark-haired young man with a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows, until he holds out his invitation to Ron and says, with his eyes on Hermione, “You look vunderful.”

  “Viktor!” she shrieks, and drops her small beaded bag, which makes a loud thump quite disproportionate to its size. As she scrambles, blushing, to pick it up, she says, “I didn’t know you were — goodness — it’s lovely to see — how are you?”

  Ariana and I giggle to ourselves watching Hermione fluster about with the first boy who really took notice of her.

  Ron’s ears have turned bright red again. After glancing at Krum’s invitation as if he does not believe a word of it, he says, much too loudly, “How come you’re here?”

  “Fleur invited me,” says Krum, eyebrows raised.

  Harry, who has no grudge against Krum, shakes hands; then, feeling that it would indeed be prudent to remove Krum from Ron’s vicinity, offers to show him his seat.

  “You look beautiful Ariana.” Hermione says looking at my girlfriends dress, and I can’t help but agree with her, kicking myself for being too distracted before. Ariana is wearing a lavender dress that hugs her curves in the right places before flowing out at the bottom.

  “Absolutely stunning.” I agree, swallowing. Ariana beams at the pair of us.

  “Yes, yes, everyone is as gorgeous as the last. Unfortunately, we are going to have to get this show on the road people.” George says beginning to usher us into the Marquee. We hurry down the aisle while Fred stops to talk to Harry. Ron, Hermione, Ariana, Harry, and I shuffle into the second row behind Fred and George where Luka is already seated.

  A sense of jittery anticipation has filled the warm tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional spurts of excited laughter. Mum and Dad stroll up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives; Mum is wearing a brand-new set of amethyst-colored robes with a matching hat.

  A moment later Bill and Charlie stand up at the front of the marquee, both wearing dress robes, with large white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled and there is an outbreak of giggling from the veela cousins. Then the crowd falls silent as music swells from what seems to be the golden balloons.

  “Ooooh!” says Hermione, swiveling around in her seat to look at the entrance. Ariana cranes her head to see as well, and I indulge in their fun.

  A great collective sigh issues from the assembled witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur come walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur is wearing a very simple white dress and seems to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually dims everyone else by comparison, today it beautifies everybody it falls upon. Ginny and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, look even prettier than usual, and once Fleur has reached him, Bill does not look as though he ever met Fenrir Greyback.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” says a slightly singsong voice, and with a slight shock, I see the same small, tufty-haired wizard who presided at Dumbledore’s funeral, now standing in front of Bill and Fleur. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls . . .”

  “Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely,” says Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. “But I must say, Ginevra’s dress is far too low cut.”

  I glance at Ginny and see that she sends a wink Harry’s way. I can’t help but smile at how obviously in love the two of them still are. Despite what consequences may come, I could never be apart from Ariana like that.

  “Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle . . . ?”

  In the front row, Mum and Madame Delacour are both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace. Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee tell everyone that Hagrid has taken out one of his own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turns and beamed at me; her eyes too are full of tears.

  “. . . then I declare you bonded for life.”

  Ariana tightens her grip on my hand, and leans her head into me.

  The tufty-haired wizard waves his wand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars fall upon them, spiraling around their now entwined figures. As Fred and George lead a round of applause, the golden balloons overhead burst: Birds of paradise and tiny golden bells fly and float out of them, adding their songs and chimes to the din.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” calls the tufty-haired wizard. “If you would please stand up!”

  We all do so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waves his wand again. The seats on which we were sitting rise gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the marquee vanish, so that we stand beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a glorious view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spreads from the center of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs group themselves around small, white-clothed tables, which all float gracefully back to earth around it, and the golden-jacket band troop towards a podium.

  “Smooth,” says Ron approvingly as the waiters pop up on all sides, some bearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering piles of tarts and sandwiches.

  “We should go and congratulate them!” says Hermione, standing on tiptoe to see the place where Bill and Fleur have vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.

  “We’ll have time later,” shrugs Ron, snatching five butterbeers from a passing tray and handing one to Harry. “Hermione, cop hold, let’s grab a table. . . . Not there! Nowhere near Muriel —”

  “Seconded.” I agree tugging Ariana along with me, nowhere near ready to let her go.

  Ron leads the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as he goes: I have a feeling that he is keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time we have reached the other side of the marquee, most of the tables are occupied: The emptiest is the one where Luna sits alone.

  “All right if we join you?” asks Ron.

  “Oh yes,” she says happily. “Daddy’s just gone to give Bill and Fleur our present.”

  “What is it, a lifetime’s supply of Gurdyroots?” asks Ron.

  “I’m sure whatever it is will be lovely Luna.” Ariana says with a smile, before glaring at Ron from across the table where we’re sitting.

  The band begins to play. Bill and Fleur take to the dance floor first, to great applause; after a while, Dad leads Madame Delacour onto the floor, followed by Mum and Fleur’s father.

  “I like this song,” says Luna, swaying in time to the waltzlike tune, and a few seconds later she stands up and glides onto the dance floor, where she revolves on the spot, quite alone, eyes closed and waving her arms.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” says Ron admiringly. “Always good value.”

  But the smile vanishes from his face at once: Viktor Krum has dropped into Luna’s vacant seat. Hermione looks pleasurably flustered, but this time Krum has not come to compliment her. With a scowl on his face he says, “Who is that man in the yellow?”

  “That’s Xenophilius Lovegood, he’s the father of a friend of ours,” says Ron. His pugnacious tone indicates that they are not about to laugh at Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. “Come and dance,” he adds abruptly to Hermione.

  She looks taken aback, but pleased too, and gers up. They vanish together into the growing throng on the dance floor.

  “Ah, they are together now?” asks Krum, momentarily distracted.

  “Er — sort of,” says Harry.

  “Who are you?” Krum asks.

  “Barny Weasley.”

  “Okay and that is our cue to go. I promised a certain lady a dance or two.” I say standing up from my chair and holding my hand out for Ariana to take. She does and gracefully rises to stand alongside me.

  “Only a dance or two? Here I was thinking that I’d get lucky.” Ariana whispers huskily, and suddenly its way too hot in here. Ariana takes the lead now, and pulls me into the crowd on the dance floor, tugging me along until we are in a somewhat less crowded space. Ariana snakes her arm around my waist, and pulls me in close to her, while keeping our hands clasped.

  With my free hand I clutch to her. We slowly do a modified slow waltz in the minimal space that we have, mainly just enjoying the time and closeness that we have with each other.

  The grief and the sense of impending separation is still there, but its masked by the outpour of happiness and absolute perfectness of this situation. Here we are together out in public, showing the world how much we care about each other at my oldest brother’s wedding. For once, the world doesn’t feel like its going to fall apart any second.

  It’s almost as if we are actually ready and prepared for what’s ahead of us, because nothing can beat this moment.

  “You know, I don’t think I actually told you how gorgeous you look today.” Ariana says, breaking through our comfortable silence.

  “Its okay, because there is no one in the world more beautiful than you.” I reply, knowing that there must be a goofy smile on my face. A red tinge comes to my girlfriend’s cheeks, but her smile is almost blindingly bright.

  “How did I get so lucky as to get you?” She asks with a chuckle. I grin a that thinking back on our long and quit rocky at times relationship.

  “I don’t think luck had any part in this. It was all your stubborn determination, Mione has told me countless times that when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m thicker than a boulder.” I admit bashfully. Ariana laughs at that.

  “Aw… now that’s a little mean. You’re not that bad— more like a medium sized rock.” She amends. I sputter an indignant cry, but unfortunately there really isn’t any comeback for that.

  “You love me anyway.” I say. Ariana nods her head and kisses me soundly at that. We only pull apart when both of us are breathless.

  “That I do.” Ariana says panting.

  We spend some more time talking softly and dancing together, mostly saying how much we do indeed love each other. We know that our time together is running short, and the necessities must be said. Eventually with feet murdering me, I pull Ariana off the dance floor so that we can find an isolated corner to huddle up in until Mum comes around and ushers us out to be polite and socialize.

  “Jamie—” Ariana starts gripping my hand tightly. Before she can get another word out, something large and silver comes falling through the canopy over the dance floor. Graceful and gleaming, the lynx lands lightly in the middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turn, as those nearest it freeze absurdly in mid-dance. Then the Patronus’s mouth opens wide and it speaks in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

  “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

 

* * *

 

 

  It was like a sick joke. The world had slowed down for a few moments before starting back up like a potion taking effect. My wand was in my hand, and I had taken a half step in front of Ariana before my mind had even fully registered the fateful words that were uttered.

  Many people are only just realizing that something strange has happened; heads are still turning towards the silver cat as it vanishes. Silence spreads outward in cold ripples from the place where the Patronus landed. Then somebody screams.

  “I need to find Harry and the others.” I say frantically, regret and fear pulling me in two different directions.

  “I’ll get you to them.” Ariana promises, her own wand raised, as her grip on my hand tightens.

  “Ari—” I start.

  “I know.” She says thickly, before plunging the two of us into the frantic crowd. Guests are sprinting in all directions; many are Disapparating; the protective enchantments around the Burrow have broken.

  I can barely hear anyone over the screams of the people fleeing. I think that I can make out Hermione’s panicked cry, but I’m not sure. Cold terror runs down my spine as I notice the masked and cloaked figures in the crowd casting spells indiscriminately at people. One of them spots us, and before my I even have a chance to raise my wand, Ariana is shouting “Protego”, and their killing curse reflects off her shield.

  Unfortunately that attracts the attention of their friend, and the two of us are in a duel to the death, at what just moments before had been a peaceful wedding. My fear had increased a hundred times over, and worst of all is that Ariana is in danger. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to my love.

  “Jamie!” A cry comes from my left, causing me to lose my concentration, and a Bombarda spell explodes against my weakened barrier, sending me flying back.

  “Jamie!” Ariana screams, her voice echoing in my throbbing head from where I was thrown back into a table of abandoned gifts. I can make out Ariana’s bleary figure as she’s thrust back into fighting the men, but luckily someone is now helping her.

  “We got you.” Harry’s voice floats over me, and I’m confused for a moment before I feel someone grip me tightly, and suddenly blackness is pressing in all around me, before I collapse to the ground again, this time on a loud and busy street. That doesn’t make sense though, for I could have sworn I was just at a wedding.

  “Ariana!” I cry lurching to my feet, wincing at the throbbing headache pounding behind my eyes.

  “I’m so sorry Jamie.” Hermione’s distraught voice comes from behind me. I whirl around to see her somber, but determined face.

  “Where are we?” Ron’s shaky voice comes from beside me.

  “What does it matter? We have to get back!” I say trying to pull myself together enough to get back to the Burrow.

  “Are you insane we can’t go back! They’ll kill us.” Hermione hisses, looping her arm through mine, and beginning to walk the four of us down the street.

  “And we’re on Tottenham Court Road,” pants Hermione. “Walk, just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to change.”

  We do as she asks this time. We half walk, half run up the wide dark street thronged with late-night revelers and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above us. A double-decker bus rumbles by and a group of merry pub-goers ogle us as we pass; Harry and Ron are still wearing dress robes.

  “Hermione, we haven’t got anything to change into,” Ron tells her, as a young woman bursts into raucous giggles at the sight of him.

  “Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?” says Harry, angrily. “All last year I kept it on me and —”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got the Cloak, I’ve got clothes for both of you, and you as well Jamie,” says Hermione. “Just try and act naturally until — this will do.”

  She leads us down a side street, then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.

  “When you say you’ve got the Cloak, and clothes . . .” says Harry, frowning at Hermione, who is carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which she is now rummaging.

  “Yes, they’re here,” says Hermione, and to Harry and Ron’s utter astonishment (I’m still too numb and possible concussed from what just happened), she pulls out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally the silvery Invisibility Cloak.

  “How the ruddy hell — ?”

  “Undetectable Extension Charm,” says Hermione. “Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gives the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoes like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects roll around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she says, peering into it, “and I had them all stacked by subject. . . . Oh well. . . . Harry, you’d better take the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. . . .”

  “When did you do all this?” Harry asks as Ron strips off his robes.

  “I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . .”

  “You’re amazing, you are,” says Ron, handing her his bundled-up robes.

  “Thank you,” says Hermione, managing a small smile as she pushes the robes into the bag. “Please, Harry, get that Cloak on!”

  Harry throws the Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and pulls it up over his head, vanishing from sight.

  “I-I just left her there…” I whimper, not able to quite control my thoughts.

  “The others — everyone at the wedding —” Harry says following along with me on this dark path.

  “We can’t worry about that now,” whispers Hermione. “It’s you they’re after, Harry, and we’ll just put everyone in even more danger by going back. The same goes for you too Jamie. They’d take you for information on Harry.”

  “She’s right,” says Ron, who seems to know that Harry is about to argue, even if he cannot see his face. “Most of the Order was there, they’ll look after everyone.”

  “Okay.” I say softly, seemingly acting as the mouthpiece for the two of us tonight.

  “Come on, I think we ought to keep moving,” says Hermione.

  We move back up the side street and onto the main road again, where a group of men on the opposite side are singing and weaving across the pavement.

  “Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?” Ron asks Hermione. I’m still unsure how they’re able to be making small talk after we just abandoned everyone we know and love.

  “I’ve no idea, it just popped into my head, but I’m sure we’re safer out in the Muggle world, it’s not where they’ll expect us to be.”

  “True,” says Ron, looking around, “but don’t you feel a bit — exposed?”

  “Where else is there?” asks Hermione, cringing as the men on the other side of the road start wolf-whistling at her and unfortunately me as well. “We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out if Snape can get in there. . . . I suppose we could try my parents’ house, though I think there’s a chance they might check there. . . . Oh, I wish they’d shut up!”

  “All right, darlings?” the drunkest of the men on the other pavement is yelling.   “Fancy a drink? Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!”

  “Let’s sit down somewhere,” Hermione says hastily as Ron opens his mouth to shout back across the road. “Look, this will do, in here!”

  Hermione tightens her grip on my arm and steers me to the place that caught her fancy.

  It is a small and shabby all-night café. A light layer of grease lays on all the Formica-topped tables, but it is at least empty. Harry slips into a booth first and Ron sits next to him opposite Hermione and me, who have our backs to the entrance and do not like it: Hermione glances over her shoulder so frequently she appears to have a twitch.

  After a minute or two, Ron says, “You know, we’re not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it’s only in Charing Cross —”

  “Ron, we can’t!” says Hermione at once.

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye.” I say cursing myself as I watch a tear land on the table in front of me.

  “Not to stay there, but to find out what’s going on!” Ron plows on, like nothing has gone on.

  “We know what’s going on! Voldemort’s taken over the Ministry, what else do we need to know?”

  “Okay, okay, it was just an idea!”

  They relapse into a prickly silence. The gum-chewing waitress shuffles over and Hermione orders three cappuccinos: As Harry is invisible; it would have looked odd to order him one. A pair of burly workmen enter the café and squeeze into the next booth. Hermione drops her voice to a whisper.

  “I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we’re there, we could send a message to the Order.”

  “Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?” asks Ron.

  “I’ve been practicing and I think so,” says Hermione.

  “Maybe they can tell us if everyone is okay.” I say, feeling the beginnings of hope and relief swell up in my chest.

  “Well, as long as it doesn’t get them into trouble, though they might’ve been arrested already. God, that’s revolting,” Ron adds after one sip of the foamy, grayish coffee. I just push mine away from me, my stomach churning unhappily. The waitress has heard; she shoots Ron a nasty look as she shuffles off to take the new customers’ orders. The larger of the two workmen, who is blond and quite huge, now that I come to look at him, waves her away. She stares, affronted.

  “Let’s get going, then, I don’t want to drink this muck,” says Ron. “Hermione, have you got Muggle money to pay for this?”

  “Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before I came to the Burrow. I’ll bet all the change is at the bottom,” sighs Hermione, reaching for her beaded bag.

  The two workmen make identical movements, and I tense without really thinking drawing my wand. Something’s not right here. Ron, a few seconds late in realizing what is going on, lunges across the table, pushing Hermione sideways onto her bench and into me. The force of the Death Eaters’ spells shatter the tiled wall where Ron’s head just was, as Harry, still invisible, yells, “Stupefy!”

  The great blond Death Eater is hit in the face by a jet of red light: He slumps sideways, unconscious. His companion, unable to see who has cast the spell, fires another at Ron: Shining black ropes fly from his wand-tip and binds Ron head to foot — the waitress screams and runs for the door — Harry sends another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the twisted face who has tied up Ron, but the spell misses, rebounding on the window, and hits the waitress, who collapses in front of the door.

  I finally push Ron off me, and level my wand at the wizard.

  “Expulso!” bellows the Death Eater, and the table behind which Harry (I guess) is standing blows up: The force of the explosion slams him into the wall and his wand leaves his hand as the Cloak slips off him.

  “Stupefy!” I shout.

  “Petrificus Totalus!” screams Hermione from out of sight, and the Death Eater falls forward like a statue from the force of both of our spells to land with a crunching thud on the mess of broken china from the, table, and coffee. Hermione crawls out from underneath the bench, shaking bits of glass ashtray out of her hair and trembling all over.

  I lower my wand back to my side, wondering why at this moment, I really don’t feel anything. I probably should be feeling something… shouldn’t I?

  “D-diffindo,” Hermione says, pointing her wand at Ron, who roars in pain as she slashes open the knee of his jeans, leaving a deep cut. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ron, my hand’s shaking! Diffindo!”

  The severed ropes fall away. Ron gets to his feet, shaking his arms to regain feeling in them. Harry picks up his wand and climbs over all the debris to where the large blond Death Eater is sprawled across the bench.

  “I should’ve recognized him, he was there the night Dumbledore died,” he says. Harry turns over the darker Death Eater with his foot; the man’s eyes move rapidly between Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me.

  “That’s Dolohov,” says Ron. “I recognize him from the old wanted posters. I think the big one’s Thorfinn Rowle.”

  “As long as its not Augustus.” I say with a growl, his name leaving a bad taste in my mouth even now.

  “Never mind what they’re called!” says Hermione a little hysterically. “How did they find us? What are we going to do?”

  Somehow her panic seems to clear Harry’s head.

  “Lock the door,” he tells her, “and Ron, turn out the lights. Jamie, watch him.”

  Harry and I look down at the paralyzed Dolohov, thinking fast as the lock clicks and Ron uses the Deluminator to plunge the café into darkness. I can hear the men who jeered at Hermione and me earlier, yelling at another girl in the distance.

  “What are we going to do with them?” Ron whispers to us through the dark; then, even more quietly, “Kill them? They’d kill us. They had a good go just now.”

  My mind flashes briefly to Ariana’s terrified face earlier tonight, and a shudder runs down my spine. If I could ever be pushed to kill a person…

  Hermione shudders and takes a step backwards. Harry shakes his head.

  “We just need to wipe their memories,” says Harry. “It’s better like that, it’ll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it’d be obvious we were here.”

  “You’re the boss,” says Ron, sounding profoundly relieved. “But I’ve never done a Memory Charm.”

  “Nor have I,” says Hermione, “but I know the theory. Jamie’s the best at Charms though, so she should do it for the highest chances of success.”

  I bite my lower lip, not certain that this is going to work, but nodding my head.

  After Hermione explains the theory to me quickly, I take a deep, calming breath, and then point my wand at Dolohov’s forehead and say, “Obliviate.”

  At once, Dolohov’s eyes become unfocused and dreamy.

  “Brilliant!” says Harry, clapping me and Hermione on the back. “Take care of the other one and the waitress while Ron and I clear up.”

  “Clear up?” says Ron, looking around at the partly destroyed café. “Why?”

  “Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it’s just been bombed?”

  “Oh right, yeah . . .”

  I start performing the spell on the other Death Eater and the waitress. Ron struggles for a moment before managing to extract his wand from his pocket.

  “It’s no wonder I can’t get it out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they’re tight.” I hear Ron complain, and I attempt to focus on the mundane stupidity to keep myself from breaking down into the deep cry that I wish I could do.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” hisses Hermione, and as she drags the waitress out of sight of the windows, I hear her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron can stick his wand instead. I care barely muster a smile at that language.

  Once the café is restored to its previous condition, we heave the Death Eaters back into their booth and prop them up facing each other.

  “But how did they find us?” Hermione asks, looking from one inert man to the other. “How did they know where we were?”

  She turns to Harry.

  “You — you don’t think you’ve still got your Trace on you, do you, Harry?”

  “He can’t have,” says Ron. “The Trace breaks at seventeen, that’s Wizarding law, you can’t put it on an adult.”

  “As far as you know,” says Hermione. “What if the Death Eaters have found a way to put it on a seventeen-year-old?”

  “At this rate, nothing surprises anymore.” I mutter, glaring at the two men who are going to get away with attacking us tonight.

  “But Harry hasn’t been near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours. Who’s supposed to have put a Trace back on him?” Ron argues back.

  Hermione does not reply. Harry looks like he’s going to be sick. I know that he’s blaming himself now, even though we don’t know exactly how it happened.

  “If I can’t use magic, and you can’t use magic near me, without us giving away our position —” Harry begins.

  “We’re not splitting up!” says Hermione firmly.

  “We need a safe place to hide,” says Ron. “Give us time to think things through.”

  “Grimmauld Place,” says Harry.

  Ron and Hermione gape at Harry.

  “Harry…” I say not exactly sure if this is a great idea.

  “Don’t be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!” Hermione cries.

  “Ron’s dad said they’ve put up jinxes against him — and even if they haven’t worked,” Harry presses on as Hermione begins to argue, “so what? I swear, I’d like nothing better than to meet Snape!”

  “But —”

  “Hermione, where else is there? It’s the best chance we’ve got. Snape’s only one Death Eater. If I’ve still got the Trace on me, we’ll have whole crowds of them on us wherever else we go.”

  “It does have other protections on it.” I say reluctantly, even though I’m not sure if I want to stay in that house again especially without the rest of my family there with me.

  Hermione cannot argue, though she looks as if she would like to. While she unlocks the café door, Ron clicks the Deluminator to release the café’s light. Then, on Harry’s count of three, we reverse the spells upon our three victims, and before the waitress or either of the Death Eaters can do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I turn on the spot and vanish into the compressing darkness once more.

  When I open my eyes again I am standing in the middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall, dilapidated houses look down on us from every side. Number twelve is visible to us, for we had been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret-Keeper, and we rush towards it, checking every few yards that we are not being followed or observed. We race up the stone steps, and Harry taps the front door once with his wand. We hear a series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the door swings open with a creak and we hurry over the threshold.

  As Harry closes the door behind us, the old-fashioned gas lamps spring into life, casting flickering light along the length of the hallway. It looks just as I remember it: eerie, cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf heads on the wall throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long dark curtains conceal the portrait of Sirius’s mother.   The only thing that is out of place is the troll’s leg umbrella stand, which is lying on its side as if Tonks has just knocked it over again.

  “I think somebody’s been in here,” Hermione whispers, pointing toward it.

  “Totally could have been the portrait of the Mad Hag.” I say gesturing to the curtain portrait.

  “That could’ve happened as the Order left,” Ron murmurs back, giving me a serious look for once in his life.

  “So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?” Harry asks.

  “Maybe they’re only activated if he shows up?” suggests Ron.

  “Can you be that specific with a jinx?” I ask worriedly, not liking the possibility of getting caught.

  Yet we remain close together on the doormat, backs against the door, scared to move farther into the house.

  “Well, we can’t stay here forever,” says Harry, and he takes a step forward.

  “Severus Snape?”

  Mad-Eye Moody’s voice whispers out of the darkness, making all four of us jump back in fright. Flashes of Moody’s death play before my eyes. “We’re not Snape!” croaks Harry, before he makes a choking sound, seeming like he can’t speak. I gurgle at the same choking sensation before having my tongue unroll for use again.

  The other two seem to have experienced the same unpleasant sensation. Ron is making retching noises; Hermione stammers, “That m-must have b-been the T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!”

  “Lovely… I-I guess that answers my question.” I gasp.

  Gingerly Harry takes another step forward. Something shifts in the shadows at the end of the hall, and before any of us can say another word, a figure has risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and terrible: Hermione screams and so does Mrs. Black, her curtains flying open; the gray figure is gliding toward us, faster and faster, its waist-length hair and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, fleshless, with empty eye sockets: Horribly familiar, dreadfully altered, it raises a wasted arm, pointing at Harry and the rest of us.

  “No!” Harry shouts, and though he has raised his wand he does nothing. “No! It wasn’t us! We didn’t kill you —”

  On the word kill, the figure explodes in a great cloud of dust: Coughing, my eyes watering, I look around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the door with her arms over her head, and Ron, who is shaking from head to foot, patting her clumsily on the shoulder and saying, “It’s all r-right. . . . It’s g-gone. . . .”

  I stand there shuddering, trying not to let the memories of Mad-Eye’s death overcome me again. This time there isn’t the option of having Ariana here to comfort me, or my Mum.

  Dust swirls around me like mist, catching the blue gaslight, as Mrs. Black continues to scream.

  “Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my fathers —”

  “SHUT UP!” Harry bellows, directing his wand at her, and with a bang and a burst of red sparks, the curtains swing shut again, silencing her.

  “That . . . that was  . . . .” Hermione whimpers, as Ron helps her to her feet.

  “Yeah,” says Harry, “but it wasn’t really him, was it? Just something to scare Snape.”

  “It certainly does a good job at scaring.” I cringe.

  Nerves still tingling, Harry continues to lead the us up the hall, half-expecting some new terror to reveal itself, but nothing moves except for a mouse skittering along the skirting board.

  “Before we go any farther, I think we’d better check,” whispers Hermione, and she raises her wand and says, “Homenum revelio.”

  Nothing happens.

  “Well, you’ve just had a big shock,” says Ron kindly. “What was that supposed to do?”

  “It did what I meant it to do!” says Hermione rather crossly. “That was a spell to reveal human presence, and there’s nobody here except us!”

  “And old Dusty,” says Ron, glancing at the patch of carpet from which the corpse-figure had risen.”

  “Oh please tell me it’s done for.” I plead, not sure that I can handle another occurrence of that ever again.

  “Let’s go up,” says Hermione with a frightened look at the same spot, and she leads the way up the creaking stairs to the drawing room on the first floor.

  Hermione waves her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, then, shivering slightly in the drafty room, she perches on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Ron crosses to the window and moves the heavy velvet curtain aside an inch.

  “Can’t see anyone out there,” he reports. “And you’d think, if Harry still had a Trace on him, they’d have followed us here. I know they can’t get in the house, but — what’s up, Harry?”

  I turn to look at him as well and see that Harry is holding his head in his hands, right where his scar is. I grimace, guessing that he is getting something from Voldemort at a time like this.

  “What did you see?” Ron asks, advancing on Harry. “Did you see him at my place?”

  “No, I just felt anger — he’s really angry —”

  “But that could be at the Burrow,” says Ron loudly. “What else? Didn’t you see anything? Was he cursing someone?”

  “No, I just felt anger — I couldn’t tell —”

  “I’m sure that everyone is safe… they have to be.” I say, my voice shaking, not wanting to think of the possibility of it being anything otherwise.

  “Your scar, again? But what’s going on? I thought that connection had closed!” Hermione cries focusing back on Harry again.

  “It did, for a while,” mutters Harry; he looks pained still. “I — I think it’s started opening again whenever he loses control, that’s how it used to —”

  “But then you’ve got to close your mind!” says Hermione shrilly. “Harry, Dumbledore didn’t want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that’s why you were supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images in your mind, remember —”

  “Yeah, I do remember, thanks,” says Harry through gritted teeth. I close my eyes, and try to keep my tears at bay. Too much has gone on today, and its beginning to get to me. I have to keep strong.

  Harry turns away from us, and I can tell that he’s getting annoyed. All is quite for a few minutes, and my headache decides to remind me that its still there, by sending out a particularly painful throb, that sends me sitting on the couch.

  Suddenly Hermione shrieks causing my head to explode in pain again. Harry draws his wand again and spins around to see a silver Patronus soar through the drawing room window and land upon the floor in front of us, where it solidifies into the weasel that speaks with the voice of Ron’s father.

  “Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched.”

  The Patronus dissolves into nothingness. Ron lets out a noise between a whimper and a groan and dropped onto the sofa beside me, and I bury my face into his shoulder, to hide my relieved tears. Hermione joins us, gripping his arm on his other side.

  “They’re all right, they’re all right!” she whispers, and Ron half laughs and hugs her and me simultaneously.

  “I’m sure Ariana is alright too. Dad would’ve said.” Ron assures me thickly.

  “I know.” I sob, unable to stop myself.

  “Harry,” Ron says over Hermione’s shoulder, “I —”

  “It’s not a problem,” says Harry, looking paler than usual. “It’s your family, ’course you’re worried. I’d feel the same way.” I think that he’s thinking about Ginny. “I do feel the same way.”

  “I don’t want to be on my own. Could we use the sleeping bags I’ve brought and camp in here tonight?” Hermione asks.

  “I think that’d be a great idea. Jame?” Ron agrees.

  “I always hated being here alone.” I say with a slight shudder, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. I look up sharply, as Harry excuses himself to the bathroom. Worry grows in me for my best friend. This day hasn’t been easy on anyone. I have to pull myself together so that I can help sort everyone out. This is what I promised myself. I will keep my friends and family safe, even if it’s the last thing that I do.


	6. Kreacher's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 6- Kreacher’s Tale

 

  When I wake the next morning, I wince for my eyes are red and slightly swollen, when I was sure that my friends had all fallen asleep last night, I had a good cry letting out all the emotions that I had been holding in for so long. My back hurt from sleeping in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor.

  A chink of sky is visible between the heavy curtains: It is the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything is quiet except for Ron and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Ron had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette is raised above his. Her arm curves to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. I wonder whether they fell asleep holding hands. The idea makes me shudder in longing for Ariana.

  Please let her be okay. If anyone should be hurt it’s me, so please Merlin, let her be okay. I close my eyes and attempt to regain my composure, before with a jolt I’m vaulting from my sleeping bag, my heart in my throat. I frantically dart over the whole room with my eyes before realizing that the worst has happened. Harry is gone.

  “Ron! Mione!” I shout scrambling over the abandoned sleeping bag of Harry and practically landing on my brother and smacking my best friend.

  “Oof! Jamie… tryin’ to sleep here…” Ron grunts glaring at me through bleary eyes, snuggling deeper into his sleeping bag.

  “What’s wrong?” Hermione jerks up from her bag as well gripping her wand defensively in her hand, a wild look in her eyes.

  “Harry— Harry’s gone.” I say desperation clinging to my voice. That wakes the two of them up the rest of the way. Ron gets up so fast, that he ends up throwing me to the floor with a painful thud as he scrambles to his feet, his wand at the ready as well.

  “Do you think they found us?” Ron asks eyes scanning the room warily.                 

  “I don’t think they did—” Hermione starts.

  “Yeah, or we’d be dead by now.” I provide unhelpfully clasping my wand tightly in my hand.

  “So where is he?” Ron demands sounding more frantic by the second.

  “He may have left on his own… Harry was awfully upset about everything that happened.” I say gripping my wand all that tighter.

  “Come on! I’ll go downstairs you two go up…” Ron says stampeding out of the room with Hermione right on his heels. I follow them out, skidding slightly in my socked feet on the landing. Ron splits up to go down, and Hermione leads the way up the stairs.

  “Harry!”

  “Harry!”

  “HARRY!”

  We storm up the stairs like a flick of hippogriffs causing much noise in our wake. The panic building inside me grows to a boiling point, causing a lump to grow in my throat. I promised myself that Harry would be okay, that I would help protect him. He can’t be gone already… he can’t.

  “Harry! Harry! HARRY!” Hermione cries close to losing it at this point as we come to the last landing.

  “I’m here!” Harry’s voice suddenly calls. “What’s happened?”

  Hermione shares a brief look of relief with me before hurrying over to the door and pushing it open with a small bang.

  “Thank Merlin.” I say at the sight of my black haired friend.

  “We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” Hermione says breathlessly. I give Harry a tight hug, trying to stop the need to smack him for worrying me. Hermione turns and shouts over her shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him!”

  Ron’s annoyed voice echoes distantly from several floors below.

  “Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”

  “You really are a prat.” I say shaking my head at my friend after releasing him.

  “Harry, don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?” Hermione says gazing around the ransacked room. “What have you been doing?”

  “Look what I’ve just found.” Harry tells us.

  He hands us a photo of a black haired baby boy zooming around on a toy broom and an old torn letter. I hold the photo fragilely while looking over the letter with Hermione.

 

Dear Padfoot,

Thank you thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player, but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.

  We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.

  Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore…

 

  The rest of the message is lost, and my mind spins at the information that Harry has just gotten from this letter written by his mum. A quick pang of pain and envy shoots through me at his luck. I have no words left of my mother and father. The house was destroyed after Augustus murdered them, nothing left to be salvaged.

  “Oh Harry…” Hermione says her voice breaking. I can see the tears that she’s fighting from falling for Harry’s sake.

  “I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry says, “but it’s not here.”

  Hermione and I glance around.

  “Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?” I ask tentatively.

  “Someone had searched before me,” says Harry.

  “I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?” Hermione asks.

  “Information on the Order, if it was Snape.” Harry says his voice taking on a hard edge.

  “But you’d think he’d already have all he needed, I mean, he was in the Order, wasn’t he?” I say trying to keep my mind focused on the conversation at hand, and not my worries.

  “Well then,” says Harry, keen to discuss his theory, “what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of this letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?”

  “Who?” Hermione asks.

  “Bathilda Bagshot, the author of —”

  “A History of Magic,” says Hermione, looking interested. “So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magical historian.”

  “And she’s still alive,” says Harry, “and she lives in Godric’s Hollow, Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore’s family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve met her once before Harry. I mean I was still small at the time, but she was beginning to lose her marbles even back then.” I say doubtfully.

  “Well then do you have a better idea?” Harry snaps, and I flinch reflexively.

  “I understand why you’d love to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too,” says Hermione, intervening in the tension. “But that wouldn’t really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?” Harry does not answer, and she rushes on, “Harry, I know you really want to go to Godric’s Hollow, but I’m scared, I’m scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I’m sure they’d be expecting you to visit it.”

  “It’s not just that,” Harry says, still avoiding looking at her. “Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth. . . .”

  He tells Hermione and me what Muriel had said at the wedding, that Dumbledore was a liar and treated his younger sister Ariana badly. At the mention of the girl I grasp my necklace in my hand soothed by the warm heat emanating from it, relieved beyond words, that my Ariana Dumbledore was still alive, and thinking of me.  

  When he finishes, Hermione says, “Of course, I can see why that’s upset you, Harry —”

  “I’m not upset,” I can see that Harry is lying, “I’d just like to know whether or not it’s true or —”

  “Harry, do you really think you’ll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!” I say finally bringing myself to defend the man that I had known my whole life.

  “I thought I did,” he mutters.

  “But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?” Hermione says crossing her arms over her chest.

  Thank Merlin Hermione is here with me now, for I’m not sure that I am of the right mindset to be dealing with Harry this morning. I have yet to get my bearings together since our hasty departure yesterday.

  Harry looks away, his jaw set in a hard line. I know my friend well enough to know that he is angry and wishes to know the truth. Harry has always been like that, a dog with a bone and he will hunt down the truth if it the last thing that he ever does.

  “Shall we go down to the kitchen?” Hermione suggests after a little pause. “Find something for breakfast?”

  Harry agrees, but grudgingly, and we follow her out onto the landing and past the second door that leads off it. There are deep scratch marks in the paintwork below a small sign that I did not notice in the dark. He pauses at the top of the stairs to read it, and I stop beside him not keen on losing my friend again so soon. It is a pompous little sign, neatly lettered by hand, the sort of thing that Percy Weasley would have stuck on his bedroom door:

Do Not Enter

Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black

 

  Harry was practically vibrating next to me with energy as his eyes dart over the sign again. I’m not sure what has gotten him so excited about this sign. Hermione is already a flight of stairs below us at this point.

  “Hermione,” Harry says, in a surprisingly calm voice. “Come back up here.”

  “What’s the matter?” She asks turning around to look back up at us.

  “R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.” Harry says. I jolt out of my stupor at that. Could it actually have been this easy?

  There is a gasp, and then Hermione runs back up the stairs.

  “In your mum’s letter? But I didn’t see —”

  Harry shakes his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She reads it, then clutches Harry’s arm so tightly that he winces.

  “Sirius’s brother?” she whispers.

  “It’s been here all this time?” I say not quite believing the luck that we are having.

  “He was a Death Eater,” says Harry, “Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave — so they killed him.”

  “That fits!” gasps Hermione. “If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!”

  She releases Harry, beams at me, and leans over the banister, and screams, “Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!”

  Ron appears, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.

  “What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want breakfast before I —”

  He frowns at the sign on Regulus’s door, to which Hermione is silently pointing.

  “What? That was Sirius’s brother, wasn’t it? Regulus Arcturus . . . Regulus . . . R.A.B.! The locket — you don’t reckon — ?”

  “Let’s find out,” says Harry. He pushes the door: It is locked. Hermione points her wand at the handle and says, “Alohomora.” There is a click, and the door swings open.

  We move over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus’s bedroom is slightly smaller than Sirius’s, though it has the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius sought to advertise his difference from the rest of the family, Regulus has striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver are everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest is painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this is a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crosses the room to examine them. A little puff of dust rises from the bedcovers as she sits down to read the clippings.

  “They’re all about Voldemort,” she says. “Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters. . . .”

Excerpt From: J.K. Rowling. “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.” iBooks.

  I’m partially stunned blinking a few times to get my eyes adjusted to all the green in the room. Harry walks over to some photographs, while Ron gets down on his knees to look under the wardrobe. I take the state of the room in its been turned over just like the others.

  I look around the room for likely hiding places and approach the desk. Yet again, somebody has searched before us. The drawers’ contents have been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there is nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bear evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.

  “There’s an easier way,” says Hermione, as I wipe my inky fingers on my jeans. She raises her wand and says, “Accio Locket!”

  Nothing happened. Ron, who was searching the folds of the faded curtains, looks disappointed.

  “Is that it, then? It’s not here?”

  “Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments,” says Hermione. “Charms to prevent it being summoned magically, you know.”

  “Like we needed this even harder.” I mutter under my breath.

  “Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave,” says Harry.

  “How are we supposed to find it then?” asks Ron.

  “We search manually,” says Hermione.

  “That’s a good idea,” says Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumes his examination of the curtains.

  The four of us combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but are forced, finally, to conclude that the locket is not there.

  The sun has risen now; its light dazzles us even through the grimy landing windows.

  “It could be somewhere else in the house, though,” says Hermione in a rallying tone as we walk back downstairs: As Harry, Ron, and I become more discouraged, she seems to become more determined. “Whether he’d managed to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though we didn’t realize it at . . . at . . .”

  “I have a feeling its not here though.” I point out. I hate to be unhelpful but, there’s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that’s telling me that we’re wasting our time looking here.

  Hermione’s silence tears my attention back to her as a horrified look is now on her face.

  “Something wrong?” asks Ron.

  “There was a locket.” Hermione whispers.

  “What?” says Harry and Ron together. A sick feeling enters my stomach, as I realize what Hermione must be thinking.

  “In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we . . . we . . .”

I remember: I even handled the thing as we passed it around, each trying in turn to prise it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy. . . .

  “Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” says Harry desperately. It is the only chance, the only slender hope left to us. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.”

  Harry ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the rest of us thundering along in his wake. We make so much noise that we wake the portrait of Sirius’s mother as we pass through the hall.

  “Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!” she screams after us as we dash down into the basement kitchen and slam the door behind us.

  Harry runs to the door to Kreacher’s cupboard and yanks it open. There is the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf once slept, but they are no longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there is an old copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe this, Harry snatches up the blankets and shakes them. A dead mouse falls out and rolls dismally across the floor. Ron groans as he throws himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closes her eyes.

  “Its not here.” I say morosely leaning my weight back against the long kitchen table.

  “It’s not over yet,” says Harry, and he raises his voice and calls, “Kreacher!”

  There is a loud crack and the house-elf that Harry so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appears out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He is still wearing the filthy rag in which we first met him, and the contemptuous look he bends upon Harry shows that his attitude to his change of ownership has altered no more than his outfit.

  “Master,” croaks Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and he bows low, muttering to his knees, “back in my Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitors Weasley and Pendragon, and the Mudblood —”

  “I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or ‘Mudblood,’” growls Harry.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” says Harry, looking down at the elf, “and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” says Kreacher, bowing low again: I see his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he is now forbidden to utter.

  “Two years ago,” says Harry, “there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?”

  There is a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher straightens up to look Harry full in the face. Then he says, “Yes.”

  “Where is it now?” asks Harry jubilantly as Ron, Hermione, and I look gleeful and relieved.

  Kreacher closes his eyes as though he cannot bear to see our reactions to his next word.

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?” echoes Harry. My happy mood flows out of me. “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

  The elf shivers. He sways.

  “Kreacher,” says Harry fiercely, “I order you —”

  “Mundungus Fletcher,” croaks the elf, his eyes still tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all: Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and — and —”

Kreacher is gulping for air: His hollow chest is rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes fly open and he utters a bloodcurdling scream.

  “ — and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket, Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”

  Harry reacts instinctively: As Kreacher lunges for the poker standing in the grate, he launches himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream mingles with Kreacher’s, but Harry bellows louder than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay still!”

  I can hardly believe the chaos going on in front of my eyes. The elf freezes and releases him. Kreacher lays flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.

  “Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispers.

  “So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorts Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right, Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”

  “Kreacher saw him!” gasps the elf as tears pour over his snout and into his mouth full of graying teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran. . . .”

  “You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s,’” says Harry. “Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!”

  The elf sits up, curls into a ball, places his wet face between his knees, and begins to rock backward and forward. When he speaks, his voice is muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

  “Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns . . . and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve . . .

  “And one day, a year after he had joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said . . . he said . . .

  The old elf rocks faster than ever.

  “. . . he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.”

  “Voldemort needed an elf?” I whisper, looking around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who look just as puzzled as I do.

  “Oh yes,” moans Kreacher. “And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do . . . and then to c-come home.”

Kreacher rocks still faster, his breath coming in sobs. I’m beginning to not like this story very much.

  “So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake . . .”

  “There was a b-boat…”

  “There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it. . . .”

  The elf quakes from head to foot.

  “Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw terrible things . . .  . Kreacher’s insides burned . . . Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed . . . He made Kreacher drink all the potion . . . He dropped a locket into the empty basin. . . . He filled it with more potion.

  “And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island. . . .”

  I grimace feeling bad for the creature in front of me despite knowing everything that the elf stands for.

  “Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s edge and he drank from the black lake . . . and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface. . . .”

  “How did you get away?” Harry asks.

  Kreacher raises his ugly head and looks at Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes.

  “Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he says.

  “I know — but how did you escape the Inferi?”

  Kreacher does not seem to understand.

  “Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he repeats.

  “I know, but —”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, Harry?” says Ron. “He Disapparated!”

  “But . . . you couldn’t Apparate in and out of that cave,” says Harry, “otherwise Dumbledore —”

  “Elf magic isn’t like wizard’s magic, is it?” says Ron. “I mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can’t.”

  “It does make sense Harry. Wizards and Witches aren’t the most powerful beings in the world.” I say softly, putting my hand on his shoulder.

  “Of course, Voldemort would have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath his notice, just like all the purebloods who treat them like animals . . . It would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn’t.” Hermione says her voice scathing.

  “The house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,” intones Kreacher. “Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home. . . .”

  “Well, then, you did what you were told, didn’t you?” says Hermione kindly. “You didn’t disobey orders at all!”

  Kreacher shakes his head, rocking as fast as ever.

  “So what happened when you got back?” Harry asks. “What did Regulus say when you told him what had happened?”

  “Master Regulus was very worried, very worried,” croaks Kreacher. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then . . . it was a little while later . . . Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell . . . and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord. . . .”

  “And he made you drink the potion?” says Harry, disgusted.

  But Kreacher shakes his head and weeps. Hermione’s hands leap to her mouth: She seems to have understood something, and the sinking feeling in my gut makes me think that we both have had the same realization.

  “M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had,” says Kreacher, tears pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. “And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets. . . .”

  Kreacher’s sobs come in great rasps now; I have to concentrate hard to understand him.

  “And he ordered — Kreacher to leave — without him. And he told Kreacher — to go home — and never to tell my Mistress — what he had done — but to destroy — the first locket. And he drank — all the potion — and Kreacher swapped the lockets — and watched . . . as Master Regulus . . . was dragged beneath the water . . . and . . .”

  “Oh, Kreacher!” wails Hermione, who is crying. She drops to her knees beside the elf and tries to hug him. At once he is on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.

  “The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?”

  “I told you not to call her ‘Mudblood’!” snarls Harry, but the elf is already punishing himself: He falls to the ground and bangs his forehead on the floor.

  “Stop him — stop him!” Hermione cries. “Oh, don’t you see now how sick it is, the way they’ve got to obey?”

  “Kreacher — stop, stop!” shouts Harry.

  I can’t help but grimace at this entire situation. There is a reason why my family sent all of our elves away to good houses when my parents died. There are some aspects of house elf owning that you never want to participate in.

  The elf lays on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snout, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he struck himself, his eyes swollen, bloodshot and swimming in tears. I have never seen anything so pitiful.

  “So you brought the locket home,” Harry says relentlessly, looking more determined than ever. “And you tried to destroy it?”

  “Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,” moans the elf. “Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work. . . . So many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open. . . . Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave. . . .”

  Kreacher began to sob so hard that there are no more coherent words. Tears flow down Hermione’s cheeks as she watches Kreacher, but she does not dare touch him again. Even Ron, who is no fan of Kreacher’s, looks troubled. I quickly conjure a handkerchief with my wand and gently kneel down and hold it out to the elf. After a moment of hesitation Kreacher nabs it, making sure to not touch any part of my hand.

  “I don’t understand you, Kreacher,” Harry says finally. “Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to Voldemort through them. . . .”

  “Harry, Kreacher doesn’t think like that,” says Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “He’s a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn’t that far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He’s loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you’re going to say,” she goes on as Harry begins to protest, “that Regulus changed his mind . . . but he doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus’s family were all safer if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all.”

  “Sirius —” Harry protests.

  “Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it’s no good looking like that, you know it’s true. Kreacher had been alone for a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I’m sure ‘Miss Cissy’ and ‘Miss Bella’ were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he did them a favor and told them everything they wanted to know. I’ve said all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did . . . and so did Sirius.”

  The silence that comes from Harry is answer enough. I shift rather uncomfortably from my position against the table. Hermione’s words ring uncomfortably true. I’ve always believed that I was a good person thinking the best of everyone and giving them a chance that everyone deserves. Have I truly done that for everyone though? I file that information away for later for further rumination.

  “Kreacher,” says Harry after a while, “when you feel up to it, er . . . please sit up.”

  It is several minutes before Kreacher hiccups himself into silence. Then he pushes himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child.

  “Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something,” says Harry. He glances at Hermione for assistance. I can tell by the smile on her face that he is already toning down his brusque behavior.

  “Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket — where Master Regulus’s locket is. It’s really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to — er — ensure that he didn’t die in vain.”

  Kreacher drops his fists and looks up at Harry.

  “Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaks.

  “And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” says Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?”

  As Kreacher nods and gets to his feet, Harry pulls out Hagrid’s purse and takes out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus placed the note to Voldemort.

  “Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he says, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you —”

  “Overkill, mate,” says Ron as the elf takes one look at the locket, lets out a howl of shock and misery, and throws himself back onto the ground.

  I grimace at the scene not sure that my nerves can take any more of the miserable elf. It brings the pain of my own sadness back to the fore.

  It tales us nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who is so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he is too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he is able to totter a few steps we all accompany him to his cupboard, watch him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assure him that we will make its protection our first priority while he is away. He then makes three low bows to Harry, Ron, and me, and even gives a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that may have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.

  “I hope that this turns out to be a good idea in the end.” I say worriedly slumping down into a seat at the kitchen table.

  “I have absolutely no idea.” Ron says rubbing his hands over his face. It looks like he’s still trying to wake himself up. To make sure that this is all indeed part of our new reality.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now, and there’s no need for all of us to go hungry while waiting. I’ll try and make something for breakfast.” Hermione says glancing around the kitchen looking a tad lost.

  “I can help. Mum taught me one or two cooking spells— most pretty much went in one ear and out the other, but I’ll try.” I say hefting myself back onto my feet, but not before sparing a last glance at Harry. There is a lost vacant look in his eye that troubles me.

  “We did the right thing.” I mutter under my breath. Hopefully I can start believing myself soon on this quest.


	7. The Bribe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 7- The Bribe

 

  It seems that everyone thought that Kreacher’s task was going to be easily completed. Harry was full of nervous energy that entire morning pacing restlessly with energy that he seemingly didn’t have before. Hermione, Ron, and I kept a close eye on him as the hours slipped from morning to afternoon, then to evening with still no word from the grumpy house-elf.

  Supper that night consisted largely of stale bread, not that Hermione or I didn’t do our best in attempting to charm and transfigure the bread into anything near half decent.

  “You just can’t charm something stale good again!” I exclaim in defeat glaring at the piece of tough, sour tasting bread.

  Kreacher does not return the following day, nor the day after that. However, two cloaked men appeared in the square outside number twelve, and they remain there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that they cannot see. The whole thing makes shivers run down my spine and a cold seep into my skin.

  “Death Eaters, for sure,” says Ron, as he, Harry, Hermione, and I watch from the drawing room windows. “Reckon they know we’re in here?”

  “I don’t think so,” says Hermione, though she looks frightened, “or they’d have sent Snape in after us, wouldn’t they?”

  “D’you reckon he’s been in here and had his tongue tied by Moody’s curse?” asks Ron.

  “Yes,” says Hermione, “otherwise he’d have been able to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn’t he? But they’re probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry owns the house, after all.”

  “How do they — ?” begins Harry.

  “Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They’ll know Sirius left you the place.” I cut in speaking up for once.

  The presence of the Death Eaters outside increases the ominous mood inside number twelve. We have not heard a word from anyone beyond Grimmauld Place since Dad’s Patronus, and the strain is starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron has developed an annoying habit of playing with the Deluminator in his pocket: This particularly infuriates Hermione, who is whiling away the wait for Kreacher by studying The Tales of Beedle the Bard and does not appreciate the way the lights keep flashing on and off.

  I’ve been mostly locked in my own mind worrying about everyone we left behind, fiddling with my necklace relieved by its warm heat, content in the knowledge that Ariana’s alive and still with me. Sometimes I imagine her doing the same with her necklace, clutching it close to her and getting the reassurance that even though she can’t see me, I’m still there with her.

  “Will you stop it!” Hermione cries on the third evening of Kreacher’s absence, as all light is sucked from the drawing room yet again.

  “Sorry, sorry!” says Ron, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. “I don’t know I’m doing it!”

  “Well, can’t you find something useful to occupy yourself?”

  “What, like reading kids’ stories?”

  “Dumbledore left me this book, Ron —”

  “— and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I’m supposed to use it!”

  Unwilling to get another headache by listening to the two of them argue again, I slip out of the drawing room into the hall. A second later Harry is bumping into me, with an almost surprised look on his face. To say that the two of us have been existing on separate planets for the last few days is putting it lightly. There’s just too much going on in our heads.

  “Jamie.” Harry says somewhat shocked.

  “Harry—” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. He gives me a look of understanding though, and I deflate. At least he understands. This is nothing like any of us thought it was going to be like. We’re all in weird headspaces at the moment.

  “Join me?” Harry asks after a moment breaking our relative silence as the argument picks up heat back in the drawing room.

  We start down the stairs to the kitchen I assume. Harry has been making quarterly trips to the kitchen besides when it’s time to attempt to scrounge up some food for meals. Halfway down the stairs we’re stopped by a sound. There’s a tap on the front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the chain.

  My heart jumps into my throat and, every nerve in my body tightens: Harry and I pull out our wands, and move into the shadows beside the decapitated elf heads, and wait. The door opens: I see a glimpse of the lamplit square outside, and a cloaked figure edges into the hall and closes the door behind it. The intruder takes a step forward, and Moody’s voice asks, “Severus Snape?” Then the dust figure rises from the end of the hall and rushes him, raising its dead hand.

  “It was not I who killed you, Albus,” says a quiet voice.

  The jinx breaks: The dust-figure explodes again, and it is impossible to make out the newcomer through the dense gray cloud it leaves behind.

  Harry points his wand into the middle of it.

  “Don’t move!” He demands.

  Harry seems to have forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the sound of his yell, the curtains hiding her fly open and she begins to scream, “Mudbloods and filth dishonoring my house —”

  Ron and Hermione come crashing down the stairs behind Harry and me, wands pointing, like us, at the unknown man now standing with his arms raised in the hall below.

  “Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” says Hermione weakly, pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead; with a bang, the curtains swish shut again and silence falls. Ron too lowers his wand, but Harry does not. I’m still have numb in the shock of it all, my wand is shaking violently in my hand, but too much bad stuff has happened around me to let it drop, not yet…

  “Show yourself!” Harry calls back.

  Lupin moves forward into the lamplight, hands still held high in a gesture of surrender.

  “I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder’s Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks, and I taught you how to produce a Patronus, Harry, which takes the form of a stag.”

  “Oh, all right,” says Harry, lowering his wand, “but I had to check, didn’t I?”

  Slowly I drop my wand as well but don’t put it away, too paranoid now to believe that we’re actually a hundred percent safe anywhere now.

  “Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Ron, Hermione, you shouldn’t be quite so quick to lower your defenses.”

  We all run down the stairs towards him. Wrapped in a thick black traveling cloak, he looks exhausted, but pleased to see us. Personally I think that he looks a little shaky from the encounter with us as well, and that eases my nerves a little.

  “No sign of Severus, then?” he asks.

  “No,” says Harry. “What’s going on? Is everyone okay?”

  “Yes,” says Lupin, “but we’re all being watched. There are a couple of Death Eaters in the square outside —”

  “We know —” I start.

  “I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door to be sure that they would not see me. They can’t know you’re in here or I’m sure they’d have more people out there; they’re staking out everywhere that’s got any connection with you, Harry. Let’s go downstairs, there’s a lot to tell you, and I want to know what happened after you left the Burrow.”

  We descend into the kitchen, where Hermione points her wand at the grate. A fire springs up instantly: It gives the illusion of coziness to the stark stone walls and glistens off the long wooden table. Lupin pulls a few butterbeers from beneath his traveling cloak and we sit down. Part of me hopes that he has some food stored in there too, as my appetite is finally beginning to come back after its holiday.

  “I’d have been here three days ago but I needed to shake off the Death Eater tailing me,” says Lupin. “So, you came straight here after the wedding?”

  “No,” says Harry, “only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a café on Tottenham Court Road.”

  Lupin slops most of his butterbeer down his front.

  “What?”

  We explain what happened; when we finish, Lupin looks aghast.

  “But how did they find you so quickly? It’s impossible to track anyone who Apparates, unless you grab hold of them as they disappear!”

  “And it doesn’t seem likely they were just strolling down Tottenham Court Road at the time, does it?” says Harry.

  “We wondered,” says Hermione tentatively, “whether Harry could still have the Trace on him?”

  “Impossible,” says Lupin. Ron looks smug, and Harry looks very relieved. “Apart from anything else, they’d know for sure Harry was here if he still had the Trace on him, wouldn’t they? But I can’t see how they could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road, that’s worrying, really worrying.”

  He looks disturbed. It is very worrying but there are other matters more pressing.

  “Tell us what happened after we left, we haven’t heard a thing since Ron’s dad told us the family were safe.”

  “Well, Kingsley saved us,” says Lupin. “Thanks to his warning most of the wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived.”

  “He’s safe right?” I ask, worry for my old guardian bubbling up in me.

  “Yes.” Remus answers me, and I sigh with relief.

  “Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?” interjects Hermione.

  “A mixture; but to all intents and purposes they’re the same thing now,” says Lupin. “There were about a dozen of them, but they didn’t know you were there, Harry. Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if it’s true, he didn’t give you away.”

  Harry looks at Ron, Hermione, and me; our expressions reflect the mingled shock and gratitude I’m feeling. We never liked Scrimgeour much, but if what Lupin says is true, the man’s final act had been to try to protect Harry. That puts him as someone good in my book.

  “The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom,” Lupin goes on. “They found the ghoul and your replacement Jamie, but didn’t want to get too close — and then they interrogated those of us who remained for hours. They were trying to get information on you, Harry, but of course nobody apart from the Order knew that you had been there.

  “At the same time that they were smashing up the wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way into every Order-connected house in the country. No deaths,” he adds quickly, forestalling the question, “but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus Diggle’s house, but as you know he wasn’t there, and they used the Cruciatus Curse on Tonks’s family. Again, trying to find out where you went after you visited them. They’re all right — shaken, obviously, but otherwise okay.”

  My stomach turns thinking about all the pain that people are going through. Remembering that a member of my own family is out there causing that same pain gives my gut another painful twist. Curse you Augustus.

  “The Death Eaters got through all those protective charms?” Harry asks.

  “What you’ve got to realize, Harry, is that the Death Eaters have got the full might of the Ministry on their side now,” says Lupin. “They’ve got the power to perform brutal spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive spell we’d cast against them, and once inside, they were completely open about why they’d come.”

  “And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing Harry’s whereabouts out of people?” asks Hermione, an edge to her voice.

  “Well,” says Lupin. He hesitates, then pulls out a folded copy of the Daily Prophet.

  “Here,” he says, pushing it across the table to Harry, “you’ll know sooner or later anyway. That’s their pretext for going after you.”

  Harry smooths out the paper. A huge photograph of Harry’s face fills the front page. I read the headline over it:

 

WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

 

  Ron and Hermione give roars of outrage, but Harry says nothing. He pushes the newspaper away, and I don’t blame him, though I do see a section where it mentions that Ariana Dumbledore has no comment. My skin crawls thinking that Voldemort’s flunkies have probably been near her.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin says.

  “So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet too?” asks Hermione furiously.

  Lupin nods.

  “But surely people realize what’s going on?” I say softly.

  “The coup has been smooth and virtually silent,” says Lupin. “The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse.”

  “Why didn’t Voldemort declare himself Minister of Magic?” asks Ron.

  Lupin laughs, and I have a hard time finding anything about this funny, even though Ron’s question was a little daft.

  “He doesn’t need to, Ron. Effectively he is the Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry.”

  “Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren’t confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion: Remaining masked has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear.”

  “And this dramatic change in Ministry policy,” says Harry, “involves warning the Wizarding world against me instead of Voldemort?”

  “That’s certainly part of it,” says Lupin, “and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you — the Boy Who Lived — were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero’s death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you.”

  “Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns.”

  Lupin points at the Daily Prophet.

  “Look at page two.”

  Hermione turns the pages with much the same expression of distaste she wore when handling Secrets of the Darkest Art.

  “‘Muggle-born Register,’” she reads aloud. “‘The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called “Muggle-borns,” the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets.

  “‘Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.

  “‘The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.’”

  The sickened feeling in my stomach becomes violent. How could people stand for this?

  “People won’t let this happen,” says Ron.

  “It is happening, Ron,” says Lupin. “Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we speak.”

  “This is sick.” I say scooting closer to Hermione at the table, needing to be reassured by her presence.

  “But how are they supposed to have ‘stolen’ magic?” says Ron. “It’s mental, if you could steal magic there wouldn’t be any Squibs, would there?”

  “I know,” says Lupin. “Nevertheless, unless you can prove that you have at least one close Wizarding relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power illegally and must suffer the punishment.”

  Ron glances at Hermione, then says, “What if purebloods and half-bloods swear a Muggle-born’s part of their family? I’ll tell everyone Hermione’s my cousin —”

  Hermione covers Ron’s hand with hers and squeezes it.

  “Thank you, Ron, but I couldn’t let you —”

  “You won’t have a choice,” says Ron fiercely, gripping her hand back. “I’ll teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it.”

  “You’d know it better than me, and I’m legally family.” I offer.

  Hermione gives a shaky laugh.

  “Ron, as we’re on the run with Harry Potter, the most wanted person in the country, I don’t think it matters. If I was going back to school it would be different. What’s Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?” she asks Lupin.

  “Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch and wizard,” he replies. “That was announced yesterday. It’s a change, because it was never obligatory before. Of course, nearly every witch and wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but their parents had the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they preferred. This way, Voldemort will have the whole Wizarding population under his eye from a young age. And it’s also another way of weeding out Muggle-borns, because students must be given Blood Status — meaning that they have proven to the Ministry that they are of Wizard descent — before they are allowed to attend.”

  “Despicable.” I growl unable to keep myself calm anymore. I push back from the table giving myself some space, just as both my hands erupt into flickering flames of blue fire.

  “Indeed.” Lupin responds calmly. He warily examines my magical outburst. I have been getting better control over them, but it hasn’t been permanent.

  “I’ll understand if you can’t confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission.” He says turning his attention back on Harry.

  “He did,” Harry replies, “and Jamie, Ron, and Hermione are in on it and they’re coming with me.”

  “Can you confide in me what the mission is?”

 “I can’t, Remus, I’m sorry. If Dumbledore didn’t tell you I don’t think I can.” Harry responds after a long moment.

  “I thought you’d say that,” says Lupin, looking disappointed. “But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to.”

  Harry looks to be considering the offer. Hermione, however, looks puzzled.

  “But what about Tonks?” she asks.

  “What about her?” says Lupin.

  “Well,” says Hermione, frowning, “you’re married! How does she feel about you going away with us?”

  “Tonks will be perfectly safe,” says Lupin. “She’ll be at her parents’ house.”

  There is something strange in Lupin’s tone; it is almost cold. There is also something odd in the idea of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents’ house; she is, after all, a member of the Order and, as far as I know, is likely to want to be in the thick of the action.

  “Remus,” says Hermione tentatively, “is everything all right . . . you know . . . between you and —”

  “Everything is fine, thank you,” says Lupin pointedly.

  Hermione turns pink. There is another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, and then Lupin says, with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, “Tonks is going to have a baby.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” squeals Hermione.

  “Good on you.” I say with a rare smile these days. My magic extinguishes itself as well.

  “Excellent!” says Ron enthusiastically.

  “Congratulations,” says Harry.

  Lupin gives an artificial smile that is more like a grimace, then says, “So . . . do you accept my offer? Will four become five? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you that I believe that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined.”

  Ron, Hermione, and I look at Harry. It’s his call in the end.

  “Just — just to be clear,” he says. “You want to leave Tonks at her parents’ house and come away with us?”

  “She’ll be perfectly safe there, they’ll look after her,” says Lupin. He speaks with a finality bordering on indifference. “Harry, I’m sure James would have wanted me to stick with you.”

  “Well,” says Harry slowly, “I’m not. I’m pretty sure my father would have wanted to know why you aren’t sticking with your own kid, actually.”

  Lupin’s face drains of color. The temperature in the kitchen felt like it dropped ten degrees. Ron stares around the room as though he has been bidden to memorize it, while Hermione’s eyes swivel backward and forward from Harry to Lupin. I’m just watching Lupin not liking that he’s so willing to abandon his kid. All kids should have their parents.

  “You don’t understand,” says Lupin at last.

  “Explain, then,” says Harry.

  Lupin swallows.

  “I — I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since.”

  “I see,” says Harry, “so you’re just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?”

  Lupin springs to his feet: His chair topples over backwards, and he glares at us so fiercely that I see, for the first time ever, the shadow of the wolf upon his human face.

  “Don’t you understand what I’ve done to my wife and my unborn child? I should never have married her, I’ve made her an outcast!”

  Lupin kicks aside the chair he has overturned. Warily I twitch my fingers towards my wand.

  “You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore’s protection at Hogwarts! You don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve done? Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child — the child —”

  Lupin actually seizes handfuls of his own hair; he looks quite deranged.

  “My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it — how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!”

  “Remus!” whispers Hermione, tears in her eyes. “Don’t say that — how could any child be ashamed of you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” says Harry. “I’d be pretty ashamed of him.”

  I can see where Harry is coming from but I’m not sure I agree with his tactics, but it has propelled Harry to his feet too. Lupin looks as though Harry has hit him.

  “If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad,” Harry says, “what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father’s in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he’d tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?”

  “How — how dare you?” says Lupin. “This is not about a desire for — for danger or personal glory — how dare you suggest such a —”

  “I think you’re feeling a bit of a daredevil,” Harry says. “You fancy stepping into Sirius’s shoes —”

  “Harry, no!” Hermione begs him, but he continues to glare into Lupin’s livid face.

  “I’d never have believed this,” Harry says. “The man who taught me to fight dementors — a coward.”

  Lupin draws his wand so fast that Harry has barely reached for his own; there is a loud bang and I watch Harry flying backwards as if punched; as he slams into the kitchen wall and slides to the floor. I catch a glimpse of the tail of Lupin’s cloak disappearing around the door.

  “Remus, Remus, come back!” Hermione cries, but Lupin does not respond. A moment later we hear the front door slam.

  I heave a sigh and shake my head at everything that just happened. I go over to Harry and stick out my hand to help him up. Harry gives me a grateful look and I haul him up.

  “Harry!” wails Hermione. “How could you?”

  “It was easy,” says Harry. I can see that he’s still so full of anger that he’s physically shaking.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” he snaps at Hermione.

  “Don’t you start on her!” snarls Ron.

  “No — no — we mustn’t fight!” says Hermione, launching herself between them.

  “You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin,” Ron tells Harry.

  “Harry has good intentions.” I break in.

  “Good intentions?” Ron snarls at me incredulously.

  “He had it coming to him,” says Harry.

  “Parents,” says Harry, “shouldn’t leave their kids unless — unless they’ve got to.”

  I wince and lower my head thinking about all the people who’ve lost their parents from Harry, to Neville, to Ariana, to my brother and me.

  “Harry —” says Hermione, stretching out a consoling hand, but he shrugs it off and walks away, his eyes on the fire Hermione conjured.

  “His heart was in the right place. If he didn’t say something— I would’ve.” I say, ignoring the glare that I get from Ron again.

  “I know I shouldn’t have called him a coward.” Harry says finally after a long while.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” says Ron at once.

  “But he’s acting like one.” I point out, refusing to let Harry believe that he’s alone in this stance.

  “All the same . . .” says Hermione.

  “I know,” says Harry. “But if it makes him go back to Tonks, it’ll be worth it, won’t it?”

  I cannot help but hear the plea in his voice. Hermione looks sympathetic, with Ron uncertain.

  Harry walked over to the table lowering himself down onto the bench looking like he had aged ten years since we’d got here. Ron and Hermione picked up a quiet conversation between the two of them, and I slumped down across from Harry fiddling with my necklace, and trying not to worry about everything that could go wrong between now and whenever this horrid mission is over.

  I don’t even notice that Harry has picked up the paper and is reading an article when a loud CRACK breaks through the relative stuffy silence of the kitchen. Suddenly a mass of struggling limbs appear out of thin air right beside Harry’s chair. He hurries to his feet as Kreacher disentangles himself and, bowing low to Harry, croaks, “Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, Master.”

  Mundungus scrambles up and pulls out his wand; Hermione, however, is too quick for him.

  “Expelliarmus!”

  Mundungus’s wand soars into the air, and Hermione catches it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dives for the stairs: Ron rugby-tackles him and Mundungus hits the stone floor with a muffled crunch.

  “That sounds like it hurt.” I wince, not sure whether to feel bad for the traitorous, thieving, coward, or satisfied at what he got for abandoning Moody and I up there with Voldemort. The later part of my psyche wins out, for there is no Ariana to level me out anymore.

  “What?” he bellows, writhing in his attempts to free himself from Ron’s grip. “Wha’ve I done? Setting a bleedin’ ’ouse-elf on me, what are you playing at, wha’ve I done, lemme go, lemme go, or —”

  “You’re not in much of a position to make threats,” says Harry. He throws aside the newspaper, crosses the kitchen in a few strides, and drops to his knees beside Mundungus, who stops struggling and looks terrified. Ron gets up, panting, and watches as Harry points his wand deliberately at Mundungus’s nose. I can tell from here that Mundungus stinks of stale sweat and tobacco smoke: His hair is matted and his robes stained.

  “Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master,” croaks the elf. “Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end.”

  “You’ve done really well, Kreacher,” says Harry, and the elf bows low.

  “Right, we’ve got a few questions for you,” Harry tells Mundungus, who shouts at once,

  “I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no offense, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you, an’ that was bleedin’ You-Know-Who come flying at me, anyone woulda got outta there, I said all along I didn’t wanna do it —”

  “For your information, none of the rest of us Disapparated,” says Hermione. My hands clench into fists at my sides glaring at the pathetic excuse for a man. I don’t even realize that I’ve advanced on the man when Ron’s hand stops my by the chest. There’s a warning look in his eyes that scream not to get into it with the filth now.

  “You and I are goin’ to have a talk after Harry is done with you coward.” I growl. Mundungus flinches upon realizing that I’m in the room as well. I honestly don’t know who he’s more scared of now Harry or me.

  “We’re not interested in why you ran out on Mad-Eye, well at least I’m not at the moment,” says Harry, moving his wand a little closer to Mundungus’s baggy, bloodshot eyes. “We already knew you were an unreliable bit of scum.”

  “Well then, why the ’ell am I being ’unted down by ’ouse-elves? Or is this about them goblets again? I ain’t got none of ’em left, or you could ’ave ’em —”

  “It’s not about the goblets either, although you’re getting warmer,” says Harry. “Shut up and listen.”

  “When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable,” Harry begins, but Mundungus interrupted him again.

  “Sirius never cared about any of the junk —”

  There is the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony: Kreacher has taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan.

  “Call ’im off, call ’im off, ’e should be locked up!” screams Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raises the heavy-bottomed pan again.

  “Kreacher, no!” shouts Harry.

  Kreacher’s thin arms tremble with the weight of the pan, still held aloft.

  “Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?”

  Ron laughs while I nod my head along in agreement with the elf.

  “We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading you can do the honors,” says Harry.

  “As long as he can still be left with me to be dealt with at the end.” I growl, not even bothering to contain the flames that once again burst from my hands.

  “Thank you very much, Master,” says Kreacher with a bow, and he retreats a short distance, his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.

  “When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find,” Harry begins again, “you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there.” Harry pauses for a moment to wet his lips as the tension and excitement rises in the room. “What did you do with it?”

  “Why?” asks Mundungus. “Is it valuable?”

  “You’ve still got it!” cries Hermione.

  “No, he hasn’t,” says Ron shrewdly. “He’s wondering whether he should have asked more money for it.”

  “More?” says Mundungus. “That wouldn’t have been effing difficult . . . bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’ I? No choice.”

  “What do you mean?” I demand in a low growl.

  “I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me and asks if I’ve got a license for trading in magical artifacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky.”

  “Who was this woman?” asks Harry.

  “I dunno, some Ministry hag.”

  Mundungus considers for a moment, brow wrinkled.

  “Little woman. Bow on top of ’er head.” He frowns and then adds, “Looked like a toad.”

  Harry drops his wand: It hits Mundungus on the nose and shoots red sparks into his eyebrows, which ignite. Surprise hits me so hard, that my magic sputters out in a weak spark of flames, as an old fear and loathing creeps back over me.

  “Aguamenti!” screams Hermione, and a jet of water streams from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and choking Mundungus.

  Harry looks up to see his own shock reflected in Ron’s, Hermione’s, and my faces. With grim warning the scars on the back of my left hand seem to be tingling again, with the memory of pain long since gone.

  Shaking my head out of my shock induced stupor I march up to Harry and Mundungus, and before anyone can react, level a good left cross across into his face. “That was for leaving me and Mad-Eye to Voldemort.” I snarl. Before Mundungus can recover from his bleeding nose, I deliver a quick jab to his already sore ribs with my foot. “And that’s for the fact that Mad-Eye actually died!”

  Without another look back at the awestruck scene in the kitchen, I hurry up the stairs and out of the suffocating environment of the kitchen. Once in the drawing room, I feel like I can sort of catch my breath, and attempt to calm myself as my magic billows and ebbs through my body, begging to be let out, to finally express some of the anger that I’ve been holding in all these years.

  The problem is, how do you let the fury and magic go without knowing what it’s going to do?


	8. Magic is Might

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 8- Magic is Might

 

  As August wears on, the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place shrivels in the sun until it is brittle and brown. The inhabitants of number twelve are never seen by anybody in the surrounding houses, and nor is number twelve itself. The Muggles who live in Grimmauld Place have long since accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that has caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

  And yet the square is now attracting a trickle of visitors who seems to find the anomaly most intriguing. Barely a day passes without one or two people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other purpose, or so it seems, than to lean against the railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching the join between the two houses. The lurkers are never the same two days running, although they all seem to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who pass them are used to eccentric dressers and take little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks in this heat.

  The watchers seem to be gleaning little satisfaction from their vigil. Occasionally one of them starts forward excitedly, as if they have seen something interesting at last, only to fall back looking disappointed.

  On the first day of September there are more people lurking in the square than ever before. Half a dozen men in long cloaks stand silent and watchful, gazing as ever at houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing for which they are waiting still appears elusive. As evening draws in, bringing with it an unexpected gust of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there occurs one of those inexplicable moments when they appear to have seen something interesting. The man with the twisted face points and his closest companion, a podgy, pallid man, starts forward, but a moment later they have relaxed into their previous state of inactivity, looking frustrated and disappointed.

  If there was anything that I hated more it was the fact that I was cooped up in the house with nothing to do. It was determined that I wouldn’t be allowed out of the house because Harry, Ron, and Hermione thought that I would do something stupid like try and find Ariana. So that left me with nothing to sate my curiosity than day dreaming about throwing objects at the heads of the Death Eaters standing vigil outside our house.

  Not even the steaming cup of tea sitting in front of me could brush away my melancholy mood. That is before I heard footsteps hurrying down the stairs. It wasn’t fair that Harry was the only one allowed to go out and risk his neck, especially since the whole bleedin’ wizarding world was after him.

  The only good thing to come out of this adventure so far was that the kitchen had changed. The kitchen is almost unrecognizable. Every surface now shines: Copper pots and pans have been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleams; the goblets and plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire, on which a cauldron is simmering. Nothing in the room, however, is more dramatically different than the house-elf who now comes hurrying towards Harry as he makes it off the last step, dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus’s locket bouncing on his thin chest.

  “I’ve got news, and you won’t like it.” Harry says grimly. Before the conversation can go any further Kreacher interrupts.

  “Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands washed before dinner,” croaks Kreacher, seizing the Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned robes that have been freshly laundered.

  “What’s happened?” Ron asks apprehensively. He and Hermione have been poring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps that litters the end of the long kitchen table, but now they watch Harry as he strides toward us and throws down the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.

  “This look ominous.” I mutter pushing my cup away and leaning closer so that I can get a look at what’s going on now.

  A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired man stares up at us all, beneath a headline that reads:

SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER

 

  “No!” says Ron and Hermione loudly.

  “That didn’t take long.” I comment darkly.

  Hermione is quickest; she snatches up the newspaper and begins to read the accompanying story out loud.

 

  “‘Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

  “‘I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values —’ Like committing murder and cutting off people’s ears, I suppose! Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore’s study — Merlin’s pants!” she shrieks, making  Harry, Ron, and I jump. She leaps up from the table and hurtles from the room, shouting as she goes, “I’ll be back in a minute!”

  “‘Merlin’s pants’?” repeats Ron, looking amused. “She must be upset.” He pulls the newspaper toward him and peruses the article about Snape.

  “McGonagall would be the better choice.” I comment lightly, trying not to let this news effect me.

  “You seem awful calm about this.” Harry says giving me a look over. I let out a stream of air, and give a weary shake of my head.

  “There’s no use in me getting upset about something that I can’t change. I can only change what’s here in front of me, so I’ll work on this first, then work on fixing others.” I tell him. Harry is quiet for a moment before nodding his head. I have somewhat sort of come out of my semi depression. I’m not in the best of spirits these days, but at least I’m able to put the crippling guilt and worry to the back of my mind where it won’t affect me as much. My friends need me here and now, not somewhere else.

  “The other teachers won’t stand for this. McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they know how Dumbledore died. They won’t accept Snape as headmaster. And who are these Carrows?” Ron says suddenly looking up from the paper at the two of us.

  “Purebloods.” I answer simply.

  “Death Eaters,” says Harry. “There are pictures of them inside. They were at the top of the tower when Snape killed Dumbledore, so it’s all friends together. And,” Harry goes on bitterly, drawing up a chair, “I can’t see that the other teachers have got any choice but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind Snape it’ll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years in Azkaban — and that’s if they’re lucky. I reckon they’ll stay to try and protect the students.”

  Kreacher comes bustling to the table with a large tureen in his hands, and ladles out soup into pristine bowls, whistling between his teeth as he does so.

  “Thanks, Kreacher,” says Harry, flipping over the Prophet so as not to have to look at Snape’s face. “Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now.”

  I pull a bowl towards me and take a sip cautiously. Not bad, Kreacher’s cooking has improved, I can actually stomach this French Onion Soup.

  “There are still a load of Death Eaters watching the house,” Harry tells Ron and me as he eats, “more than usual. It’s like they’re hoping we’ll march out carrying our school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express.”

  “That would be the day.” I say with a smirk picturing the shock on their faces seeing us toting our trunks and wearing our Gryffindor robes.

  Ron glances at his watch.

  “I’ve been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn’t it?” Ron says looking a little glum. I frown thinking about the scarlet red engine that would take us away to the magical school that honestly felt just as much like home as the Burrow did.

  “I’m sure Ginny, Neville, Luke, Luna, and— Ariana are sitting together right now plotting some way to undermine Snape and get under his skin.” I say with a bittersweet grin.

  “They better be smart about it.” Ron says lowly. I open my mouth to make a witty comeback at his statement, but close my mouth deciding against it.

  “The Death Eaters nearly saw me coming back in just now,” Harry says, trying to refocus us. “I landed badly on the top step, and the Cloak slipped.”

  “I do that every time. Oh, here she is,” Ron adds, craning around in his seat to watch Hermione reentering the kitchen. “And what in the name of Merlin’s most baggy Y Fronts was that about?”

  “I remembered this,” Hermione pants.

  She is carrying a large, framed picture, which she now lowers to the floor before seizing her small, beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it, she proceeds to force the painting inside, and despite the fact that it is patently too large to fit inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had vanishes, like so much else, into the bag’s capacious depths.

  “Phineas Nigellus,” Hermione explains as she throws the bag onto the kitchen table with the usual sonorous, clanking crash.

  “Bloody hell.” I breathe out finally catching onto her train of thought. Phineas Nigellus has a portrait in the headmaster’s office and he could spy on us at anytime he’d like.

  “Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this house for him,” Hermione explains to Ron as she resumes her seat. “But let him try it now, all Phineas Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of my handbag.”

  “Good thinking!” says Ron, looking impressed.

  “Thank you,” smiles Hermione, pulling her soup towards her. “So, Harry, what else happened today?”

  “Nothing,” says Harry. “Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign of her. Saw your dad, though, Ron, Jamie. He looks fine.”

  Ron and I share relieved looks with each other, and sighs of relief. We agreed that it is far too dangerous to try and communicate with Dad while he walks in and out of the Ministry, because he is always surrounded by other Ministry workers. It is, however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, even if he does look very strained and anxious.

  “Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work,” Ron says. “That’s why we haven’t seen Umbridge, she’d never walk, she’d think she’s too important.”

  “And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy robes?” Hermione asks.

  “Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance,” says Ron.

  “How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?” Hermione asks, her soupspoon suspended in midair.

  “Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes.”

  “There is a dress code to follow at the Ministry.” I say slowly.

  “But you never told us that!” Hermione cries.

  Hermione drops her spoon and pulls toward her the sheaf of notes and maps that she and Ron were examining when Harry entered the kitchen.

  “There’s nothing in here about navy blue robes, nothing!” she says, flipping feverishly through the pages.

  “Well, does it really matter?” Ron asks. I sigh, of course it does.

  “Ron, it all matters! If we’re going to get into the Ministry and not give ourselves away when they’re bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail matters! We’ve been over and over this, I mean, what’s the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren’t even bothering to tell us —”

  “Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing —”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that there’s probably no more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of —”

  “I think we should do it tomorrow,” says Harry. I suck in a breath of air, my nerves suddenly skyrocketing. We haven’t done anything seriously dangerous yet, until now.

  Hermione stops dead, her jaw hanging; Ron chokes a little over his soup.

  “Tomorrow?” repeats Hermione. “You aren’t serious, Harry?”

  “I am,” says Harry. “I don’t think we’re going to be much better prepared than we are now even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that locket could be. There’s already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn’t open.”

  “Unless,” says Ron, “she’s found a way of opening it and she’s now possessed.”

  “Wouldn’t make any difference to her, she was so evil in the first place,” Harry shrugs.

  Hermione is biting her lip, deep in thought.

  “We know everything important,” Harry goes on, addressing Hermione. “We know they’ve stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry. We know only the most senior Ministry members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Ron heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly where Umbridge’s office is, because of what you heard that bearded bloke saying to his mate —”

  “‘I’ll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me,’” Hermione recites immediately.

  “Exactly,” says Harry. “And we know you get in using those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, because I saw that witch borrowing one from her friend —”

  “But we haven’t got any!” Hermione wails.

  “If the plan works, we will have,” Harry continues calmly.

  “I don’t know, Harry, I don’t know. . . . There are an awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much relies on chance. . . .”

  “That’ll be true even if we spend another three months preparing,” says Harry. “It’s time to act.”

  I can tell by looking around at my friends that they’re scared, even Harry. This isn’t a game that we’re playing. We’re not at school anymore, there are real and deadly consequences to our actions.

  Ron, Hermione, and Harry had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry, which Ron, thanks to Dad, had known since childhood. I wasn’t allowed to go until school started up so that I wasn’t tempted to leave. I guess I really scared them for a while there. The three of them had tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful observation which of them could be relied upon to appear, alone, at the same time every day. Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak a Daily Prophet out of somebody’s briefcase. Slowly we had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked in front of Hermione. My job was to make the maps since I wasn’t actually there to help, with input from the other three.

  “All right,” says Ron slowly, “let’s say we go for it tomorrow. . . . I think it should just be me and Harry.”

  “Oh, don’t start that again!” sighs Hermione. “I thought we’d settled this.”

  “Yeah I’m better now guys— you’re going to need all the help you can get.” I say leveling a hard look at Harry and Ron.

  “It’s one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different, Hermione.” Ron jabs a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. “You’re on the list of Muggle-borns who didn’t present themselves for interrogation!”

  “And you and Jamie are supposed to be dying of spattergroit at the Burrow! If anyone shouldn’t go, it’s Harry, he’s got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head —”

  “Fine, I’ll stay here,” says Harry. “Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, won’t you?”

  As Ron and Hermione laugh, I watch as Harry winces in pain, his hand jumping to his scar. Seeing that Hermione and I are watching he tries to fool us into thinking that he was just brushing hair out of his eyes.

  “Well, if all four of us go we’ll have to Disapparate separately,” Ron is saying. “We can’t all fit under the Cloak anymore.”

  Before anything else can happen Harry shoots up from the table and stumbles up the stairs to the bathroom. Hermione, Ron, and I exchange worried looks, before bolting up the stairs at the first sound of the pained yell coming from above.

  “I knew he was still having visions.” Hermione mutters hotly under her breath. It took a few minutes for Harry to open the door while Hermione pounded on it, and demanded that Harry let us in. I knew that he was going to be reluctant to do so, for he has been on the receiving end of a lot of Hermione rants by now.

  After what seemed like five more minutes, the bolt on the door is pulled back. Hermione topples into the room from leaning against the door and looks around suspiciously. Ron and I stay behind her, knowing that this was not our fight to have. We’ve learned our lesson about stepping in between Hermione and a cause of hers.

  Ron and I wearily lower our wands that we had raised as soon as the screaming had started when we see that it is only Harry panting in the bathroom.

  “What were you doing?” asks Hermione sternly.

  “What d’you think I was doing?” asks Harry with feeble bravado.

  “You were yelling your head off!” says Ron.

  “I’m surprised that you weren’t heard outside.” I say darkly glancing back at the door unsure whether I should go and check on our company.

  “Oh yeah . . . I must’ve dozed off or —” Harry mutters.

  “Harry, please don’t insult our intelligence,” says Hermione, taking deep breaths.   “We know your scar hurt downstairs, and you’re white as a sheet.”

  Harry sits down on the edge of the bath.

  “Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he’s probably killed her whole family. And he didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were just there . .  .”

  “Harry, you aren’t supposed to let this happen anymore!” Hermione cries, her voice echoing through the bathroom. “Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! He thought the connection was dangerous — Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?”

  “Because it means I know what he’s doing,” says Harry.

  “So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?” Hermione cries, looking like she might be sick.

  “Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at Occlumency, I never got the hang of it.” Harry counters.

  “You never really tried!” she says hotly. “I don’t get it, Harry — do you like having this special connection or relationship or what — whatever —”

  She falters under the look he gives her as he stands up.

  “Like it?” he says quietly. “Would you like it?”

  “Harry— she didn’t mean it like that…” I plead, not wanting to get into another fight, that’s the last thing that we all need.

  “I — no — I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean —” Hermione stumbles.

  “I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous. But I’m going to use it.” Harry says his eyes hard.

  “Dumbledore —”

  “Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else’s. I want to know why he’s after Gregorovitch.”

  “Who?” Ron asks piping up.

  “He’s a foreign wandmaker,” says Harry. “He made Krum’s wand and Krum reckons he’s brilliant.”

  “But according to you,” says Ron, “Voldemort’s got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?”

  “Maybe Ollivander can’t give him what he wants.” I say shuddering at the thought of not being useful to Voldemort.

  “Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better . . . or else he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn’t know.” Harry says his face twisted in thought.

  Harry glares at the three of us through the mirror as he can see our skeptical looks.

  “Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did,” says Hermione, “but you made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?”

  “Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!” Harry cries. I can tell by the way that Harry and Hermione glare at each other that neither is going to give in. Ron and I exchange hopeless looks. This whole team thing is going to be harder to pull off than I originally thought.

  Ron clears his throat and gives Hermione a look.

  “Drop it,” he advises her. “It’s up to him. And if we’re going to the Ministry tomorrow, don’t you reckon we should go over the plan?”

  Reluctantly, as I can tell, Hermione lets the matter rest, though I am quite sure she will attack again at the first opportunity. In the meantime, we return to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher serves us all stew and treacle tart.

  We do not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over and over their plan until we can recite it, word perfect, to each other. I’m not looking forward to my part whatsoever, but with the limited resources that we have at our disposal, someone had to take it for the team, and with me having some sporadic fits of blue flames, this is the safest option for us all.

  That night before sleep claimed me, I clutched my necklace hard, pouring all the fear, worry, guilt, and longing into it. I know that it must be burning against Ariana’s chest, but at least she will know that I’m alive— that I’m still here, and thinking about her.

 

* * *

 

 

  The next morning dawns far too early for my liking. I did not need the coffee that Kreacher was serving Hermione, for my nerves and adrenaline were enough to keep me going already as it is. I did try to shove one of the hot rolls down my throat so that I could attempt to keep my nerves at bay, and make sure that my stomach did not revolt too much.

  Harry and Ron come down the stairs looking about the same as us, like they hadn’t got much sleep last night. Hermione was the most visibly nervous of us all.

  “Robes,” she says under her breath, acknowledging Harry and Ron’s presence with a nervous nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, “Polyjuice Potion . . . Invisibility Cloak . . . Decoy Detonators . . . You should each take a couple just in case . . .  Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears . . .”

  We gulp down our breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing us out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for us when we return.

  “Bless him,” says Ron fondly, “and when you think I used to fantasize about cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall.”

  We make our way onto the front step with immense caution: We can see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.

  Hermione Disapparates with Ron first, then I Disapparate with Harry. Even though I could now Disapparate on my own it still wasn’t my favorite thing to do, and I had to steady myself once my feet touched sold ground again.

  The four of us are now in the tiny dark alleyway where the first part of our operation is to take place. I grimace at the thought of my upcoming transformation not looking forward to this one bit.

  The alleyway is as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers do not usually appear here until at least eight o’clock.

  “Right then,” says Hermione, checking her watch. “She ought to be here in about five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her —”

  “Hermione, we know,” says Ron sternly. “And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?”

  Hermione squeals.

  “I nearly forgot! Stand back —”

  She points her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside us, which bursts open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it leads, as we know from our careful scouting trips, into an empty theater. Hermione pulls the door back towards her, to make it look as though it is still closed.

  “And now,” she says, turning back to face the rest of us in the alleyway, “we put on the Cloak again —”

  “— and we wait,” Ron finishes, throwing it over Hermione’s head like a blanket over a birdcage and rolling his eyes at Harry and me.

  Little more than a minute later, there is a tiny pop and a little Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair Apparates feet from us, blinking a little in the sudden brightness; the sun has just come out from behind a cloud. She barely has time to enjoy the unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione’s silent Stunning Spell hits her in the chest and she topples over.

  “Nicely done, Hermione,” says Ron, emerging from behind a bin beside the theater door as Harry takes off the Invisibility Cloak, I peel myself away from a shadow further down the alley. Together we carry the little witch into the dark passageway that leads backstage. Hermione plucks a few hairs from the witch’s head and adds them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she has taken from the beaded bag. Ron is rummaging through the little witch’s handbag.

  “She’s Mafalda Hopkirk,” he says, reading a small card that identifies our victim as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. “You’d better take this, Hermione, and here are the tokens.”

  He passes her several small golden coins, all embossed with the letters M.O.M., which he has taken from the witch’s purse. I swallow heavily knowing that the time for my transformation is coming soon.

  Hermione drinks the Polyjuice Potion, which is now a pleasant heliotrope color, and within seconds stands before us, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she removes Mafalda’s spectacles and puts them on, Hermione turns to me with a grim look. “Sorry Jamie.” She says, before casting a quick spell that is not so much as painful as shocking. Before I can even blink, I’m hurtling to the ground to land rather painfully with a high-pitched metal ping. Hermione kneels down on the ground and picks me up. That’s right my part in this plan is to be transfigured into a broach. I officially can do nothing but hang on Hermione’s jacket and watch, until I am freed. Harry checks his watch.

  “We’re running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second.”

  I am hurriedly clipped onto Hermione, and they close the door on the real Mafalda; Harry and Ron throws the Invisibility Cloak over themselves but Hermione remains in view, waiting. Well I guess that I’m technically still here as well, even though I can’t speak or move. Seconds later there is another pop, and a small, ferrety-looking wizard appears before us.

  “Oh, hello, Mafalda.”

  “Hello!” says Hermione in a quavery voice. “How are you today?”

  “Not so good, actually,” replies the little wizard, who looks thoroughly downcast.

  As Hermione, the wizard, and I head for the main road, I can only assume that Harry and Ron are creeping along behind us.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather,” says Hermione, talking firmly over the little wizard as he tries to expound upon his problems; it is essential to stop him from reaching the street. I never expected this ride to be so bumpy and dizzying. Thank Merlin I can’t get sick in this form. “Here, have a sweet.”

  “Eh? Oh, no thanks —”

  “I insist!” says Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in his face, causing me to bounce, and becoming very queasy. Looking rather alarmed, the little wizard takes one. I am never doing this again this is too much for a person to handle helpless.

  The effect is instantaneous. The moment the pastille touches his tongue, the little wizard starts vomiting so hard that he does not even notice as Hermione yanks a handful of hairs from the top of his head, jostling me again in the process. Maybe it’s a good thing that people can’t hear me for I’ve let some pretty explicit words fly from this little misadventure.

  “Oh dear!” Hermione says, as he splatters the alley with sick. “Perhaps you’d better take the day off!”

  “No — no!” He chokes and retches, trying to continue on his way despite being unable to walk straight. “I must — today — must go —”

  “But that’s just silly!” says Hermione, alarmed. “You can’t go to work in this state — I think you ought to go to St. Mungo’s and get them to sort you out!”

  The wizard has collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still trying to crawl towards the main street.

  “You simply can’t go to work like this!” cries Hermione. I can’t go either, but my trip is only just beginning.

  At last he seems to accept the truth of her words. Using a repulsed Hermione to claw his way back into a standing position, he turns on the spot and vanishes, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron has snatched from his hand as he goes and some flying chunks of vomit. Thankfully I didn’t get any of that on me in this form.   

  “Urgh,” says Hermione, holding up the skirts of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. “It would have made much less mess to Stun him too.”

  “Yeah,” says Ron, emerging from under the cloak holding the wizard’s bag, “but I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention. Keen on his job, though, isn’t he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then.”

  Within two minutes, Ron stands before us, as small and ferrety as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

  “Weird he wasn’t wearing them today, wasn’t it, seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I’m Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back.” I wanted to make a comment on his now smaller stature but unfortunately my new imprisoned form only allowed me to snicker to myself at my own wittiness.

  “Now wait here,” Hermione tells Harry, who is still under the Invisibility Cloak, “and we’ll be back with some hairs for you.”

  It was probably the most disorienting and scariest ten minutes of my life. When you’re a small object fastened to an article of clothing, you can only see what is facing right in front of you, and small movement makes your world jar, and move about in ways that it never should.

  I was only able to catch the movement of some guy, before his hair was taken from him.

  “We don’t know who he is,” Hermione says, passing Harry several curly black hairs, “but he’s gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he’s pretty tall, you’ll need bigger robes . . . ”

  She pulls out a set of the old robes Kreacher has laundered for us, and Harry retires to take the potion and change.

  Once the painful transformation was complete he is more than six feet tall and, from what I can tell from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. He also has a beard. When Harry comes out have stowed the invisibility cloak and glasses in his bag, the transformation is incredible.

  “Blimey, that’s scary,” says Ron, looking up at Harry, who now towers over him. It’s funny to see the role reversal, but again I lack the power to comment. This is going to grow old pretty fast.

  “Take one of Mafalda’s tokens,” Hermione tells Harry, “and let’s go, it’s nearly nine.”

  They step out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded pavement there are spiked black railings flanking two flights of steps, one-labeled GENTLEMEN, the other LADIES.

  “See you in a moment, then,” says Hermione nervously, and she tottered us off down the steps to LADIES. Once inside the bathroom she makes it into one of the stalls by inserting the golden coin into the slot by the door. I have absolutely no idea what we’re supposed to do now, and quite frankly I’m not looking forward to it. It only took Hermione a few seconds to understand that she was going to have to flush us in.

  Thoroughly disgusted with the prospect, but being unable to protest, Hermione climbs into the bowl, and flushes us. We were instantly zoomed down a short chute into the fireplaces of the Ministry of Magic. Okay I may have found something that I dislike more than portkeys and I never thought that that could ever be possible.

  We appear into the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic, and it I had a body to shiver with I would have, by the drastic changes that have taken place here over the past few months.

  Previously a golden fountain filled the center of the hall, casting shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden floor and walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone dominates the scene. It is rather frightening, this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue are the words MAGIC IS MIGHT.

  Well if that isn’t trying to tell you who is actually ruling over the wizarding world, then you’d be dafter than Crabbe and Goyle. Ron joins Hermione, and they both wave over the disguised Harry to their spot near the wall, and out of the way of the flow of traffic.

  “You got in all right, then?” Hermione whispers to Harry.

  “No, he’s still stuck in the bog,” says Ron. I wish I could have laughed at that to relieve my stress.

  “Oh, very funny . . . It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Hermione says to Harry, who is staring up at the statue. “Have you seen what they’re sitting on?”

  Luckily I’m positioned so that I can see more closely and realize that what I thought were decoratively carved thrones are actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely robed wizards.

  “Muggles,” whispers Hermione. “In their rightful place. Come on, let’s get going.”

  Again if I could be sick, I probably would be at the sight of that statue. How could Dad stand coming to work to the sight of that thing every morning?

  We join the stream of witches and wizards moving towards the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking around as surreptitiously as possible, but there is no sign of the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. Well I guess they look, and I bob and get dizzy. The three pass through the gates and into a smaller hall, where queues are forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as many lifts. They have barely joined the nearest one when a voice says, “Cattermole!”

  Luckily Hermione moves slightly so that I can see the man who is being so loud. The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face is somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which are embroidered with much gold thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts calls sycophantically, “Morning, Yaxley!” Yaxley ignores them.

  “I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It’s still raining in there.”

  Ron looks around as though hoping somebody else will intervene, but nobody speaks.

  “Raining . . . in your office? That’s — that’s not good, is it?”

  Ron gives a nervous laugh. Yaxley’s eyes widen. I shake my head wishing that I had my body back so I could have physically slapped my hand over his mouth to shut him up.

  “You think it’s funny, Cattermole, do you?”

  A pair of witches break away from the queue for the lift and bustle off.

  “No,” says Ron, “no, of course —”

  “You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I’m quite surprised you’re not down there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a pureblood next time.”

  Hermione lets out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looks at her. She coughs feebly and turns away. I can’t believe that this is actually happening, and that no one is stepping up to help out.

  “I — I —” stammers Ron.

  “But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood,” says Yaxley, “— not that any woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth — and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my priority to do that job, Cattermole. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” whispers Ron.

  “Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within an hour, your wife’s Blood Status will be in even graver doubt than it is now.”

  Boy if I wasn’t the size of token and had my blue fire back, that man would most likely be ashes by now. So maybe this is why the others thought that I shouldn’t be turned into someone else. I probably would have just had an ‘accident’ here.

  The golden grille before us clatters open. With a nod and unpleasant smile to Harry, who is evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole, Yaxley sweeps away towards another lift. Harry, Ron, and Hermione enter theirs (carrying me), but nobody follows them: It is as if they are infectious. The grilles shut with a clang and the lift begins to move upwards.

  “What am I going to do?” Ron asks the other two at once; he looks stricken. “If I don’t turn up, my wife — I mean, Cattermole’s wife —”

  “We’ll come with you, we should stick together —” begins Harry, but Ron shakes his head feverishly.

  “That’s mental, we haven’t got much time. You two find Umbridge, I’ll go and sort out Yaxley’s office — but how do I stop it raining?”

  “Try Finite Incantatem,” says Hermione at once, “that should stop the rain if it’s a hex or curse; if it doesn’t, something’s gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings —”

  “Say it again, slowly —” says Ron, searching his pockets desperately for a quill, but at that moment the lift judders to a halt. A disembodied female voice says, “Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau,” and the grilles slides open again, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet paper airplanes that flutter around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.

  “Morning, Albert,” says a bushily whiskered man, smiling at Harry. He glances over at Ron and Hermione as the lift creaks upwards once more; Hermione is now whispering frantic instructions to Ron. The wizard leans towards Harry, leering, and mutters, “Dirk Cresswell, eh? From Goblin Liaison? Nice one, Albert. I’m pretty confident I’ll get his job now!”

  He winks. I’m not sure what Harry does, but it seems to get the man off his back. The lift stops; the grilles open once more.

  “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services,” says the disembodied witch’s voice.

  I get jostled as Hermione gives Ron a little push and he hurries out of the lift, followed by the other wizards, leaving Harry and Hermione (and me) alone. The moment the golden door has closed Hermione says, very fast, “Actually, Harry, I think I’d better go after him, I don’t think he knows what he’s doing and if he gets caught the whole thing —”

  “Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff.”

  The golden grilles slide apart again and Hermione gasps. Four people stand before us, two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

  Well it looks like the bit— I mean hag is back. Merlin help us all.


	9. The Muggle-Born Registration Commission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 9- The Muggle-Born Registration Commission

                                                                               

  “Ah, Mafalda!” says Umbridge, looking at Hermione and subsequently me. “Travers sent you, did he?”

  “Y-yes,” squeaks Hermione. Boy if only I had limbs, this toad would be too charred to make frog legs with.

  “Good, you’ll do perfectly well.” Umbridge speaks to the wizard in black and gold.   “That’s that problem solved, Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we shall be able to start straightaway.” She consults her clipboard. “Ten people today and one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut  . . . even here, in the heart of the Ministry!” She steps into the lift beside Hermione, as do the two wizards who have been listening to Umbridge’s conversation with the Minister.    “We’ll go straight down, Mafalda, you’ll find everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert, aren’t you getting out?”

  “Yes, of course,” says Harry in Runcorn’s deep voice. I watch desperately as Harry steps off the lift and looks at us with a mildly panicked expression until the golden grille closes in front of us, and the elevator starts up again. I can hear Umbridge discussing today’s docket with the two other wizards who got into the lift with us.

  I can feel the fast thump of Hermione’s heartbeat against my transformed state. She’s nervous, and she has a right to be, but she can’t blow her cover quite yet. She has an advantage by not looking like herself and still being human. She would have to use the counter transfiguration on me before I could even be any help to her, and even then there would be the problem because Jamie Pendragon will have magically appeared in the Ministry of Magic.

  Right now Jamie Pendragon is supposed to be at home cursing her idiot brother who got her seriously ill. No, all in all this genius plan of Harry’s is seeming to fall through, since everyone has been separated. The lift comes to a stop and the group exits into the hallway.

  It is torch lit and made entirely of stone, much different from the other hallways that we were in before. Hermione follows behind Umbridge and her entourage to the courtrooms and I don’t even need to have a body to shiver at the sight of the towering cloaked figures who were sucking all the warmth out of he waiting area outside of the courts.

  I could see a group of ten witches and wizards huddled together, some with family, and others alone, hiding their faces, and looking pretty much just downright miserable. I could see that the people waiting there must be the muggle-borns that were on trial today. The thought revolted me, and I can feel how petrified Hermione is being in this situation.

  I just hope that we can get out of this situation alive and well hopefully with the locket, so that we can never come back here again. The world has become a horrible place, and I’m not so sure that I want to live in it anymore. This is why we need Harry to succeed.

  We watched four of the trials. Four people who never really had a chance. They were never going to get off. Umbridge had had her mind made up about them before she even met the person. This was all just an elaborate farce to cause more misery.

  “No, no, I’m half-blood, I’m half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie Alderton, he’s a well-known broomstick designer, look him up, I tell you — get your hands off me, get your hands off —”

  “This is your final warning,” says Umbridge’s soft voice, magically magnified so that it sounds clearly over the man’s desperate screams. There’s no doubt that all what I witness here is going to become nightmares later on. “If you struggle, you will be subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

  The man’s screams subside, but dry sobs echo through the chamber.

  “Take him away,” says Umbridge. I don’t get a view of the poor man being dragged away, for Hermione has kept to very studiously scribbling notes, and making as little eye contact with the poor people as possible.

  “Next — Mary Cattermole,” calls Umbridge. So this is the woman who is married to the poor man that Ron is impersonating.

  A small woman trembling from head to foot with dark hair smoothed back into a bun and she wearing long, plain robes comes into the door, before the door swings shut behind her. Her face is completely bloodless. As she passes the dementors, I can see her give a small shudder. I don’t blame her for the reaction at all.

  There are more dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stand like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the high, raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sits Umbridge, with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione, who I am sure is quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the other.   At the foot of the platform, a bright-silver, long-haired cat prowls up and down, up and down, and I realize that it is there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanates from the dementors: That is for the accused to feel, not the accusers.

  “Sit down,” says Umbridge in her soft, silky voice. That voice that has made me in the past simultaneously want to throw up or throw something.

  Mrs. Cattermole stumbles to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The moment she sits down, chains clink out of the arms of the chair and bind her there.

  “You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” asks Umbridge.

  Mrs. Cattermole gives a single, shaky nod.

  “Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?”

  Mrs. Cattermole bursts into tears.

  “I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!”

  Umbridge ignores her.

  “Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?”

  Mrs. Cattermole sobs harder than ever.

  “They’re frightened, they think I might not come home —”

  “Spare us,” spits Yaxley. “The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies.”

  Oh if only I had arms—make that an arm! He wouldn’t be mouthing off like that is I had the chance to say something about it.

  Umbridge is back to trying to address the distraught witch, but that’s not what’s gotten my attention now.

  “I’m behind you.” A voice whispers from behind Hermione and again by extension me. Harry is here. Finally.

  Hermione jumps so violently she nearly overturns the bottle of ink with which she is supposed to be recording the interview, but both Umbridge and Yaxley are concentrating upon Mrs. Cattermole, and this goes unnoticed.

  “A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole,” Umbridge is saying. “Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?”

  Mrs. Cattermole nods, mopping her eyes on her sleeve.

  “Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?”

  “T-took?” sobs Mrs. Cattermole. “I didn’t t-take it from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It — it — it — chose me.”

  She cries harder than ever. I almost can’t stand to watch this anymore. Umbridge and Yaxley may be heartless but I’m not.

  Umbridge laughs a soft girlish laugh that made me want to attack her and judging by the soft swishing behind us, Harry as well. She leans forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swings forward too, and dangles over the void: the locket.

  Hermione sees it too; she lets out a little squeak, but Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, are deaf to everything else.

  “No,” says Umbridge, “no, I don’t think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here — Mafalda, pass them to me.”

  Umbridge holds out a small hand: She looks so toadlike at that moment that I’m surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers. Hermione’s hands are shaking with shock. She fumbles in a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it.

  “That’s — that’s pretty, Dolores,” she says, pointing at the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge’s blouse. Well at least she didn’t just blurt out asking where she got the damn thing.

  “What?” snaps Umbridge, glancing down. “Oh yes — an old family heirloom,” she says, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. “The S stands for Selwyn. . . . I am related to the Selwyns. . . . Indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related. . . . A pity,” she continues in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs. Cattermole’s questionnaire, “that the same cannot be said for you. ‘Parents’ professions: greengrocers.’”

  Anything’s better than being a toad. Grumbling to myself is beginning to get very old very quickly.

  Yaxley laughs jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrols up and down, and the dementors stand waiting in the corners.

  It is Umbridge’s lie that must have broke Harry’s already thin restraint. He raises his wand, not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and says, “Stupefy!”

  There is a flash of red light; Umbridge crumples and her forehead hits the edge of the balustrade: Mrs. Cattermole’s papers slide off her lap onto the floor and, down below, the prowling silver cat vanishes. Ice-cold air hits us like an oncoming wind: Yaxley, confused, looks around for the source of the trouble and sees Harry’s disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. He tries to draw his own wand, but too late: “Stupefy!”

  Yaxley slides to the ground to lie curled on the floor.

  “Harry!”

  “Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend —”

  “Harry, Mrs. Cattermole!”

  I can see that the dementors from the corner of the room are now gliding towards the poor woman chained to the chair in the center of the room. She’s a sitting duck out there. If only Hermione would free me, and then this would be an evener fight.

  Mrs. Cattermole lets out a terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand grasps her chin and forces her face back.

  “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

  The silver stag soars from the tip of Harry’s wand and leaps toward the dementors, which fall back and melt into the dark shadows again. The stag’s light, more powerful and more warming than the cat’s protection, fill the whole dungeon as it canters around and around the room.

  “Get the Horcrux,” Harry tells Hermione. I feel her nod her head and motion before suddenly I’m thrown to the ground, and instead of pinging around on the floor a couple of times, I let out a groan as my body impacts the ground heavily. My senses swim for a moment before I realize that I’ve just been freed from my hell as a broach.

  “Remind me to take the time later on to vomit when we’re not in a life or death situation.” I groan stumbling to my feet in time to see Hermione yank the locket off of Umbridge’s neck. I turn after grabbing my wand from its holster to watch as Harry in disguise approached Mrs. Cattermole.

  “You?” she whispers, gazing into his face. “But — but Reg said you were the one who submitted my name for questioning!”

  “Did I?” mutters Harry, tugging at the chains binding her arms. “Well, I’ve had a change of heart. Diffindo!” Nothing happens. “Hermione, how do I get rid of these chains?”

  “Wait, I’m trying something up here —”

  “Hermione, we’re surrounded by dementors!” I say glancing around nervously. I wasn’t supposed to come out of this charm still in the Ministry, and not in a room full of dementors.

  “I know that, Jamie, but if she wakes up and the locket’s gone — I need to duplicate it — Geminio! There . . . That should fool her. . . .”

  Hermione comes running downstairs.

  “Let’s see. . . . Relashio!”

  The chains clink and withdraw into the arms of the chair. Mrs. Cattermole looks just as frightened as ever before.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispers.

  “This is your lucky day.” I say gripping my wand tighter as I narrow my eyes at the dementors.

  “You’re going to leave here with us,” says Harry, pulling her to her feet. “Go home, grab your children, and get out, get out of the country if you’ve got to. Disguise yourselves and run. You’ve seen how it is, you won’t get anything like a fair hearing here.”

  “Harry,” says Hermione, “how are we going to get out of here with all those dementors outside the door?”

  “Patronuses,” says Harry, pointing his wand at his own: The stag slows and walks, still gleaming brightly, towards the door. “As many as we can muster; do yours, Hermione. You too Jamie, since you’re out now.”

  “Expecto patronum!” I cast, and a large silvery lioness bursts from my way to walk over to the stag, quickly nuzzling against its side.

  “Expec — Expecto patronum,” says Hermione. Nothing happens.

  “It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with,” Harry tells a completely bemused Mrs. Cattermole. “Bit unfortunate, really . . . Come on, Hermione. . . .”

  “Expecto patronum!” Hermione tries again.

  A silver otter bursts from the end of Hermione’s wand and swims gracefully through the air to join the stag and lioness.

  “C’mon,” says Harry, and he leads Hermione, Mrs. Cattermole, and me to the door.

  When the Patronuses glide out of the dungeon there are cries of shock from the people waiting outside. I look around; the dementors are falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering before the silver creatures.

  “It’s been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families,” Harry tells the waiting Muggle-borns, who are dazzled by the light of the Patronuses and still cowering slightly. “Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s the — er — new official position. Now, if you’ll just follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave from the Atrium.”

  “Come on people this is your best chance, keep up.” I say, ushering the rest of the muggle-borns ahead of me behind Hermione and Harry. Luckily I’m not too recognizable or this would have gotten uncomfortable really fast.

  We manage to get up the stone steps without being intercepted, but as we approach the lifts I start to have misgivings. If we emerge in the Atrium with a silver stag, an otter soaring alongside it, a pouncing lioness, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, this will attract unwanted attention. It seems that Harry has reached this unwelcome conclusion as well when the lift clangs to a halt in front of us.

  “Reg!” screams Mrs. Cattermole, and she throws herself into Ron’s arms. “Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he’s told all of us to leave the country, I think we’d better do it, Reg, I really do, let’s hurry home and fetch the children and — why are you so wet?”

  “Water,” mutters Ron, disengaging himself. “Harry, they know there are intruders inside the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door, I reckon we’ve got five minutes if that —”

  Hermione’s Patronus vanishes with a pop as she turns a horror-struck face to Harry.

  “Harry, if we’re trapped here — !”

  “Knew there was going to have to be a battle.” I mutter loosening my limbs.

  “We won’t be if we move fast, and hopefully no fight as well,” says Harry. He addresses the silent group behind us, who are all gawping at him and maybe us.

  “Who’s got wands?” Harry demands.

  About half of them raise their hands.

  “Okay, all of you who haven’t got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who has. We’ll need to be fast before they stop us. Come on.”

  We manage to cram ourselves into two lifts. Harry’s Patronus and mine stand sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts begin to rise.

  “Level eight,” says the witch’s cool voice, “Atrium.”

  I know at once that we are in trouble. The Atrium is full of people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.

  “Harry!” squeaks Hermione. “What are we going to — ?”

  “STOP!” Harry thunders, and the powerful voice of Runcorn echoes through the Atrium: The wizards sealing the fireplaces freeze. “Follow me,” he whispers to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who move forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron, Hermione, and me.

  “What’s up, Albert?” says a balding wizard. He looks nervous.

  “This lot need to leave before you seal the exits,” says Harry with all the authority he can muster.

  The group of wizards in front of us look at one another.

  “We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone —”

  “Are you contradicting me?” Harry blusters. “Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell’s?”

  “Sorry!” gasps the balding wizard, backing away. “I didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought . . . I thought they were in for questioning and . . .”

  “Their blood is pure,” says Harry, and his deep voice echoed impressively through the hall. “Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go,” he booms to the Muggle-borns, who scurry forward into the fireplaces and begin to vanish in pairs. The Ministry wizards hang back, some looking confused, others scared and resentful. Then:

  “Mary!”

  Mrs. Cattermole looks over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, has just come running out of a lift.

  “R-Reg?”

  She looked from her husband to Ron, who swears loudly.

  The balding wizard gapes, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.

  “Hey — what’s going on? What is this?”

  “Seal the exit! SEAL IT!”

  Yaxley has burst out of another lift and is running towards the group beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole have now vanished. As the balding wizard lifts his wand, Harry raises an enormous fist and punches him, sending him flying through the air.

  “He’s been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!” Harry shouts.

  The balding wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar, under cover of which Ron grabs Mrs. Cattermole, pulls her into the still-open fireplace, and disappears. Confused, Yaxley looks from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screams, “My wife! Who was that with my wife? What’s going on?”

  I see Yaxley’s head turn, see an inkling of the truth dawn in that brutish face. Boy am I glad that I’m inconsequential enough to be ignored for the moment since I only just appeared, maybe I can come off as a muggle-born.

  “Come on!” Harry shouts at Hermione and me; he seizes her hand and mine, then we jump into the fireplace together as Yaxley’s curse sails over Harry’s head. We spin for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flings open the door; Ron is standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole.

  “Reg, I don’t understand —”

  “Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home!”

  There is a noise in the cubicle behind us; I turn around; Yaxley has just appeared.

  “LET’S GO!” Harry yells. He seizes Hermione by the hand and Ron by the arm and turns on the spot, luckily I have a grip on Hermione, even as I’m firing off my curse at the man..

  Darkness engulfs us, along with the sensation of compressing bands, but something is wrong. . . . Hermione’s hand seemed to be sliding out of my grip. . . .

  It seemed like everyone was slipping away, and a terror far greater than any I have been able to come up with comes over me.

  And then I see the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but before I can draw breath, there is a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione’s hand is suddenly vicelike in mine and everything goes dark again. I seriously hate this form of travel.


	10. The Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 10- The Thief

 

  “I never asked for any of this Merlin.” The man says while staring off onto the rolling countryside that only begins to dot with trees in the distance.

  “None of the greats ever do Arthur.” Another man says a few paces behind the first looking at the introspective king.

  “No one would ask to be King if they knew the responsibilities that came with it. They would literally be driven mad within the first briefing.” Arthur grumbles slashing his arm out visciously, and startling when a blue tongue of flame shoots out in its wake. Merlin watches the king carefully.

  “I did not ask for this Merlin.” Arthur states empatically turning to look at his most trusted friend and advisor. Merlin can see the pain in his steel blue eyes, and regret races through him. Arthur never wanted this, but this is what he was meant for, he was literally born for this— his once and future king.

  “I know you did not Arthur, but that is what makes you best suited for this power.” Merlin says cautiously.

  “Best suited to be the judge, god, and executioner? I think not Merlin, no mere man is supposed to have this power!” Arthur despairs, grimacing as his left hand catches aflame.

  “You are no mere man Arthur, you have been gifted with the power of magic, it is an honor to hold dear. You can make a difference in the world Arthur, you already have. Camelot is breathing proof of your capabilities, but there is so much more to the world out there Arthur, so much beyond Camelot.” Merlin says sweeping his arm out to encompass the rolling hills and dark forest of beyond.

  “I have tried Merlin, and what has it got me? Gwenivere is saying that I am not attentive enough, and has been talking to Lancelot of all people for comfort, and my own son— what will he make of me when he turns old enough to realize what his father has done, what the fate of his people, and his m— curse has done? What then Merlin? What will be left of the Great King then?” Arthur shouts his anguish finally getting the better of him.

  Merlin lets out a sigh as he takes a long look at his friend and confidant. Arthur was barely thirty-five, but he looked to be the man carrying the burden of someone years older. The playful light that once twinkled in the man’s blue eyes had been dulled, to mere matte.

  “To have such a power— such a responsibility will sit heavy on the soul, but there is no one else to carry it. It is a horrible burden to ask a person to bear, but the power itself does not make you bad Arthur, this very power is what makes you incredible, why the best and only person out there for the job. Your son will understand that, even if your wife cannot.” Merlin says placing his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

  The king merely looks up at him with forlorn eyes.

  “You once told me that this power is born within myself, that my own feelings fuel the energy that feeds this? And that my magic, the only kind that I may poses unlike my descendants will be a curse to them?” Arthur says shaking his head, and turning back out to look over the fields.

  “Not all of them Arthur. There will be times when this power is not needed, when it would be wrong to have such a tool at their disposal. There is also the consideration of character of your kin. Only the true will be able to wield the R—

 

* * *

 

 

  The world comes back into violent focus with dark black spots threatening to engulf my vision. I only have the mind to roll over and start vomiting. I can’t even remember the last time that I had ever been this violently ill before— maybe when I was testing out the Puking Pastilles for Fred and George.

  After what seems like hours of puking my guts up (not fun let me tell you), I’m able to focus my eyes enough to roll over (away from my mess) and take a look around me. I look up and see that there is a canopy of trees above me, with sunlight poking holes through the leaves, and blinding me. I blink owlishly a few times before looking around me to realize that I’m not alone, and that Hermione and Harry are bent over Ron.

  I can hear their urgent voices from where I had landed, so I struggle to get to my feet, so that I can stumble my way over to them. It was a horrible sight when I get there, greeted by my brother’s pain filled groan.

  Blood drenches the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stands out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion is wearing off now: Ron is halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drains of the little color it has left.

  “What’s happened to him?” I croak barely able to speak through my sore throat and horror filled being.

  “Splinched,” says Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood is wettest and darkest. Luckily there is nothing left in my stomach to be sick with, for the sight of someone I love critically wounded is more than enough to make my stomach turn.

  Harry and I watch, horrified, as she tears open Ron’s shirt. My insides crawl unpleasantly as Hermione lays bare Ron’s upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh is missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife. Merlin splinching is the worst.

  “Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’ —” Hermione says.

  “Bag — right —” Harry mutters.

  Harry speeds to the place where Hermione landed, seizes the tiny beaded bag, and thrusts his hand inside it.

  “Quickly!” Hermione demands.

  Seeing that Harry is getting nowhere quick with the bag I race over and yank his arm out of it, before grabbing my wand and casting a spell.

   “Accio Dittany!” I say.

  A small brown bottle zooms out of the bag; Harry catches it and we hasten back to Hermione and Ron, whose eyes are now half-closed, strips of white eyeball all that is visible between his lids.

  “He’s fainted,” says Hermione, who is also rather pale; she no longer looks like Mafalda, though her hair is still gray in places. “Unstopper it for me, Harry, my hands are shaking.”

  Harry wrenches the stopper off the little bottle, Hermione takes it and pours three drops of the potion onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billows upward and when it has cleared, I see that the bleeding has stopped. The wound now looks several days old; new skin stretches over what has just been open flesh.

  “So he should be okay now.” I say mainly to reassure myself, since Hermione, Luka, and Ariana had made me go through an excruciatingly long study session on Dittany back in school.

  “Wow,” says Harry, still looking stunned at the potions work.

  “It’s all I feel safe doing,” says Hermione shakily. “There are spells that would put him completely right, but I daren’t try in case I do them wrong and cause more damage. . . . He’s lost so much blood already. . . .”

  “How did he get hurt? I mean” — Harry shakes his head, likely trying to clear it, to make sense of whatever has just taken place — “why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place?”

  Hermione takes a deep breath. She looks close to tears. I have a feeling that I’m not going to like whatever she has to say.

  “Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to go back there.” Hermione says.

  “What d’you — ?”

  “It’s compromised.” I breathe out, not liking this new development one bit.

  “As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I couldn’t get rid of him, he was too strong, and he was still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then — well, I think he must have seen the door, and thought we were stopping there, so he slackened his grip and I managed to shake him off and I brought us here instead!” Hermione sniffles, trying to hold herself together.

  “But then, where’s he? Hang on. . . . You don’t mean he’s at Grimmauld Place? He can’t get in there?” Harry says looking sick.

  Hermione’s eyes sparkle with unshed tears as she nods.

  “Its not your fault Mione. No one could have predicted that he would get a hold on you.” I say trying to reassure my friend, and not spin off into panic myself. I’m really not so sure that I’m cut out for all this adventure stuff anymore.

  “Harry, I think he can. I — I forced him to let go with a Revulsion Jinx, but I’d already taken him inside the Fidelius Charm’s protection. Since Dumbledore died, we’re Secret-Keepers, so I’ve given him the secret, haven’t I?” Hermione looks downright horrible at this point, and I don’t bother trying to comfort her again, knowing that she won’t hear it, just like last time.

  I hadn’t even known that I was clutching my necklace when the heat emanating from it heats up to an almost unbearable degree. The thought that Ariana is thinking of me in this very moment is almost enough to break me. I wonder if it’s already been in the papers that we have been spotted breaking into the Ministry of Magic. She must be so worried…

  “Harry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Hermione wails, finally breaking down.

  “Don’t be stupid, it wasn’t your fault! If anything, it was mine. . . .” Harry says with a sigh.

  Harry puts his hand in his pocket and draws out Mad-Eye’s eye. Hermione recoils, looking horrified, and I suck in a breath of air, unable to look at the eye any longer.

  “Umbridge had stuck it to her office door, to spy on people. I couldn’t leave it there . . . but that’s how they knew there were intruders.” Harry explains. I feel my hand ignite, but I leave them be, knowing there is just no controlling my feelings at the moment.

  Before Hermione or I can answer, Ron groans and opens his eyes. He is still gray and his face glistens with sweat.

  “How d’you feel?” Hermione whispers.

  “Lousy,” croaks Ron, wincing as he felt his injured arm.

  “Better than dead you prat. You’re not allowed to go and die on me here. Mum would skin me alive.” I say, with a weak grin that he barely returns.

  “Where are we?” Ron musters out again.

  “In the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup,” says Hermione. “I wanted somewhere enclosed, undercover, and this was —”

  “The best place you could think of. Smart nobody probably comes back here anymore. Willingly at least.” I say giving Hermione a faint grin. The events that have happened in the last few hours are too numerous and perplex to even begin to sort out real emotions.

  “D’you reckon we should move on?” Ron asks Harry.

  “I dunno.” Harry admits looking around at the group.

  Ron still looks pale and clammy. He has made no attempt to sit up and it looks as though he is too weak to do so. The prospect of moving him is daunting to say the least.

  “Let’s stay here for now,” Harry says.

  “Camping’s not so bad, as long as you’re not in the room next to Ron, he snores!” I exclaim trying to lighten the mood but it doesn’t work very well.

  Looking relieved, Hermione springs to her feet.

  “Where are you going?” asks Ron.

  “If we’re staying, we should put some protective enchantments around the place,” she replies, and raises her wand, she begins to walk in a wide circle around Harry, Ron, and me, murmuring incantations as she goes. I see little disturbances in the surrounding air: It is as if Hermione has cast a heat haze upon our clearing.

  “Salvio Hexia . . . Protego Totalum . . . Repello Muggletum  . . . Muffliato . . . You could get out the tent, Harry. . . .”

  “Tent?” I ask not quite believing what I’m hearing. I really should know better with Hermione by now.

  “In the bag!” She exclaims rolling her eyes.

  “In the . . . of course,” says Harry.

  He does not bother to grope inside it this time, but uses a Summoning Charm like I had before. The tent emerges in a lumpy mass of canvas, rope, and poles. I recognize it, partly because of the smell of cats, as the same tent in which we slept on the night of the Quidditch World Cup. I move over to help Harry with the construction.

  “I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?” I say curiously, starting to disentangle the tent pegs.

  “Apparently he didn’t want it back, his lumbago’s so bad,” says Hermione, now performing complicated figure-of-eight movements with her wand, “so Ron and Jamie’s dad said I could borrow it. Erecto!” she adds, pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in one fluid motion rises into the air and settles, fully constructed, onto the ground before Harry and me, out of whose startled hands a tent peg or two soars, to land with a final thud at the end of a guy rope. Sometimes I swear that I forget that I’m a witch when I’m stressed out or around Harry.

  “Cave Inimicum,” Hermione finishes with a skyward flourish. “That’s as much as I can do. At the very least, we should know they’re coming, I can’t guarantee it will keep out Vol —”

  “Don’t say the name!” Ron cuts across her, his voice harsh.

  Harry, Hermione, and I look at each other. So we’re going back to this now.

  “I’m sorry,” Ron says, moaning a little as he raises himself to look at us, “but it feels like a — a jinx or something. Can’t we call him You-Know-Who — please?”

  “Dumbledore said fear of a name —” begins Harry.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, mate, calling You-Know-Who by his name didn’t do Dumbledore much good in the end,” Ron snaps back. “Just — just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?”

  Oh crap.

  “Respect?” Harry repeats, but Hermione shoots him a warning look; apparently he is not to argue with Ron while the latter is in such a weakened condition. I’m assuming that that goes for me as well.

  Harry, Hermione, and I half carry, half drag Ron through the entrance of the tent. The interior is exactly as I remember it: a small flat, complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen. I shove aside an old armchair and lower Ron carefully onto the lower berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey has turned Ron whiter still, and once we have settled him on the mattress he closes his eyes again and does not speak for a while.

  “I’ll make some tea,” says Hermione breathlessly, pulling kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag and heading towards the kitchen.

  I lower myself shakily onto the bunk across from Ron, not sure if my legs are going to keep me standing any longer. My head is starting to throb with all of the new information that its getting, and that’s not even mentioning that King Arthur and Merlin himself decided to drop by and have a very confusing chat inside my head for a few minutes.

  I don’t even have the time to think about, and go over what that whole thing was about. There are real live dangers that we have to worry and contend with at this very moment. I can’t be anything bit one hundred percent for my friends, or what use am I?

  When Hermione returns with the tea, I drink it automatically, not putting much thought or attention into what I’m actually drinking. After a few minutes Ron breaks the silence.

  “What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?” He asks.

  “With any luck, they’ll have got away,” says Hermione, clutching her hot mug for comfort. “As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That’s what Harry told her to do.”

  “Blimey, I hope they escaped,” says Ron, leaning back on his pillows. The tea seems to be doing him good; a little of his color has returned. “I didn’t get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. God, I hope they made it. . . . If they both end up in Azkaban because of us . . .”

  “We can’t think like that. Thinking of the possibilities— the what ifs, it will drive you mad… I should know.” I state darkly, remembering my breakdowns wondering and worrying about my family, friends, and Ariana.

  I share a look with Harry, and he slightly gestures in the direction of Hermione. I turn my attention over to her. Hermione is watching Ron fret over the fate of the Cattermoles, and there is such tenderness in her expression that I feel almost as if I have surprised her in the act of kissing him. Harry must feel the same way, and I give him a bemused smile.

  “So, have you got it?” Harry asks Hermione, partly to remind her that we are there.

  “Got — got what?” she says with a little start.

  “What did we just go through all that for? The locket! Where’s the locket?” I say a little exasperated, but fond of the love that is clearly still gripping my friend.

  “You got it?” shouts Ron, raising himself a little higher on his pillows. “No one tells me anything! Blimey, you could have mentioned it!”

  “Well, we were running for our lives from the Death Eaters, weren’t we?” says Hermione. “Here.”

  And she pulls the locket out of the pocket of her robes and hands it to Ron.

It is as large as a chicken’s egg. An ornate letter S, inlaid with many small green stones, glint dully in the diffused light shining through the tent’s canvas roof.

  “There isn’t any chance someone’s destroyed it since Kreacher had it?” asks Ron hopefully. “I mean, are we sure it’s still a Horcrux?”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice, a free Horcrux all taken care of.” I sigh, thinking that the probability of one of those is very slim.

  “I think so,” says Hermione, taking it back from him and looking at it closely.   “There’d be some sign of damage if it had been magically destroyed.”

  “Well it is nice to have dreams.” I state, chuckling a little when Harry pushes me exasperatedly. Hermione passes the Horcrux to Harry, and I’m perfectly fine not touching the thing for now, or however long it stays with us. I have enough freaky magic in and around me to begin with.

  “I reckon Kreacher’s right,” says Harry. “We’re going to have to work out how to open this thing before we can destroy it.” Unfortunately for me Harry passes the locket to me. I grimace as the metal touches my skin. There is something unnatural about this locket, and I’m not liking it one bit.

  We all attempt to pry it open, and again with a stroke of seemingly bad luck the bloody bastard is back with me.

  “Can you feel it, though?” Ron asks in a hushed voice.

  “What d’you mean?” Harry asks.

  I clench my fist around the locket and jolt. After a moment or two, I’m pretty sure I know what Ron means. I’m not sure it is my own blood pulsing through my veins that I can feel, or is it something beating inside the locket, like a tiny metal heart?

  “What are we going to do with it?” Hermione asks. There the million pound question. I quickly hand the locket back to Harry, not wanting to touch the thing any further. I quickly shoot my hand back up to my own necklace reassured slightly by its constant warm heat.

  “Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it,” Harry replies, and, little though he seems to want to, he hangs the chain around his own neck, dropping the locket out of sight beneath his robes.

  “I think we should take it in turns to keep watch outside the tent,” he adds to Hermione, and me standing up and stretching. “And we’ll need to think about some food as well. You stay there,” he adds sharply, as Ron attempts to sit up and turns a nasty shade of green.

  “Come on Ron you need your strength if you’re going to be of any use to annoy or bother us in the future.” I say with a quick grin. This time I get the disgusted look, but I can see a hint of mirth in his eyes, which is victory enough for me.

  With the Sneakoscope Hermione gave Harry for his birthday set carefully upon the table in the tent, Harry, Hermione, and I spend the rest of the day sharing the role of lookout. However, the Sneakoscope remains silent and still upon its point all day, and whether because of the protective enchantments and Muggle-repelling charms Hermione has spread around us, or because people rarely venture this way, our patch of wood remains deserted, apart from occasional birds and squirrels. Evening brings no change; Harry lights his wand as he swaps places with me at ten o’clock, and we look out upon a deserted scene, noting the bats fluttering high above us across the single patch of starry sky visible from our protected clearing.

  Its not even an hour later when Hermione joins me with a plate of something that looks like its meant to be food. “I brought you some dinner, thought you may be hungry since everyone else was…” She says softly, taking a seat besides me. I give her a weak smile of thanks.

  Dinner tonight looks to be the wild mushrooms that Hermione had collected earlier stewed in a billycan. “How’re they doing?” I ask putting a bite of the mushroom into my mouth, and having to stop myself from gagging at the first taste, and swallow before I choke.

  “All right I guess, but they’re boys you know, and Harry and Ron can be two of the most stubborn ones when the want to be.” Hermione says with an eye roll. I manage a grin at that.

  “Girls aren’t all that much better you know?” I say. Hermione hums her agreement along with me, and we sit in comfortable silence for a few moments.

  “How are you holding up Jamie? I know that this mission seems to be all about Harry, and now Ron since he’s hurt, but you matter as well.” She says softly. My hands tighten around the bowl for a second before I release the tension and put the bowl down beside me.

  “It’s a complicated question Mione.” I mumble.

  “Then give me a complicated answer.” She replies. I look up and meet her eyes, seeing how firm she is in her resolve to have the truth out of me.

  “I’m scared, I’m tired, I feel horrible, and I miss my family so much that it hurts. The worst part is I miss Ariana so much, that it feels like I’m missing my arm— or my other half. I guess you don’t realize how good you’ve got it until its gone…” I say trying to fight back the tears that are threatening to come.

  “You haven’t lost any of that. Ariana isn’t gone. She’s still your girlfriend Jamie, and I’m sure that she’d have a few choice words to say if you weren’t still hers. I know that you and her are still connected even now, and you will see her again, one way or another.” Hermione says, trying to make me feel better.

  I manage a faint smile for her.

  “Did Ariana give you a phrase book to deal with my emotions?” I joke half heartedly, and by the look that’s on Hermione’s face, she has at the very least talked to Ariana about this.

  “Just know that I’m here for you as well Mione, I know you have Ron now, but I’m still here, just because I’m a girl who likes girls, doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about what’s going on.” I say with a smirk, and know that I’ve hit the mark when Hermione’s face darkens a deep red, to almost rival Ron’s coloring.

  Harry relieves me later in the night after Hermione has gone in to try and get some sleep. I tiredly dragged myself into the sleeping quarters that used to belong to the girls and passed out on the lower bunk. After what only seemed like mere minutes, I’m startled awake by screaming, Harry’s screaming to be exact. I stumble out of the bunks, totally confused and alarmed, gripping my wand tightly, as Hermione bursts from Ron’s quarters with her wand raised as well. At least she looks like she has gotten more sleep than I have.

  Without a second thought, and not waiting for Ron’s shouted questions, the pair of us burst outside of the tent, wands at the ready, only to come to face Harry who is fast asleep screaming on the ground. It looks like he slumped down from being propped up against the side of the tent.

  “Harry!” I cry.

  “Harry!” Hermione shouts.

  “Harry!” We roar together, finally jerking the boy out of his nightmare.

  “Dream,” Harry says, sitting up quickly and attempting to meet Hermione’s glower with a look of innocence. “Must’ve dozed off, sorry.”

  “I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol —”

  “Don’t say his name!” comes Ron’s angry voice from the depths of the tent.

  “Fine,” retorts Hermione. “You-Know-Who’s mind, then!”

  “I didn’t mean it to happen!” Harry says. “It was a dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?”

  “If you just learned to apply Occlumency —”

  I am too tired to keep up with the two of them and their argument, so I just rub my eyes, and attempt to pay attention. But Harry does not seem interested in being told off; he looks like he wants to discuss what he has just seen.

  “He’s found Gregorovitch, Hermione, and I think he’s killed him, but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch’s mind and I saw —”

  “I think I’d better take over the watch if you’re so tired you’re falling asleep,” says Hermione coldly.

  “I can finish the watch!” Harry says angrily.

  “No, you’re obviously exhausted. Go and lie down.” Hermione snaps.

  She drops down in the mouth of the tent, looking stubborn. Angry, but wishing to avoid a row, Harry ducks back inside. I stand there for a moment blinking owlishly, not quite sure what had just happened.

  “You too Jamie, you had last watch, and have barely been in bed an hour.” Hermione says softer, but the order is still clear in her voice. Not going to argue with her, I turn around and enter the tent after Harry.

  Despite how tired I am I make my way over to Ron’s bunk for I can see Harry settling down on the one above him.

  After several moments, Ron speaks in a voice so low that it will not carry to Hermione, huddled in the entrance. Ron merely spares me a glance, knowing that I’m curious and won’t tell anyone off.

  “What’s You-Know-Who doing?” Ron asks. It takes a moment for Harry to respond.

  “He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was torturing him.” Harry says.

  “How’s Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new wand if he’s tied up?” Ron asks.

  “I dunno. . . . It’s weird, isn’t it?” Harry’s voice trails off. I allow the darkness and silence to take over me almost falling into a trance like state when Harry speaks again.

  “He wanted something from Gregorovitch,” Harry says. “He asked him to hand it over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from him . . . and then . . . then . . .”

 “He read Gregorovitch’s mind, and I saw this young bloke perched on a windowsill, and he fired a curse at Gregorovitch and jumped out of sight. He stole it, he stole whatever You-Know-Who’s after. And I . . . I think I’ve seen him somewhere. . . .”

  I can’t imagine how Harry sees these things and what they must do to him. It would be truly awful to have someone always being able to get into your head. I should know since Arthur has made another appearance.

  After a while, Ron whispers, “Couldn’t you see what the thief was holding?”

  “No . . . it must’ve been something small.” Harry responds.

  “Harry?”

  The wooden slats of Ron’s bunk creak as he repositions himself in bed.

  “Harry, you don’t reckon You-Know-Who’s after something else to turn into a Horcrux?”

  “I don’t know,” says Harry slowly. “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be dangerous for him to make another one? Didn’t Hermione say he had pushed his soul to the limit already?”

  “Yeah, but maybe he doesn’t know that.”

  “Yeah . . . maybe,” says Harry. Unable to keep my body awake for any longer I pull myself away from their bunks and back over to the one I was in previously. As soon as my body hits the mattress, the world starts going dark around me. All I can hope for at this point is to not be visited in my sleep by visions like Harry. Maybe I can dream of Ariana…


	11. The Goblin's Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 11- The Goblin’s Revenge

 

  The next morning came all too soon. It was a nightmare that woke me up in the early hours of the morning, it was flashes of my family members meeting all sorts of horrible curses. A shudder rolled down my spine as I lay there, but I didn’t rest for long because there is movement at the tent flap. My heart rate spikes as the possibilities about who could be coming into our supposedly protected tent are endless.

  It only take a moment for the fact to register that its Harry slipping out, and while my panic is gone, my fear stays steady as I scramble out of bed after him, forgetting to slip on shoes. I can barely feel the rocks and twigs digging into my feet as I follow along behind Harry unsure exactly of what he is doing out here without any of us. Suddenly he stops in front of this giant old gnarled tree and drops to his knees.

  He doesn’t say a word as I come to a stop beside him. Harry just proceeds to bury Mad-Eye’s eye at the base of it, and a lump forms in my throat as the man’s death replays itself. “He would be touched— in a way.” I say awkwardly remembering how gruff Mad-Eye could be.

  “I hope so. You didn’t have to follow me you know, I’m not going to vanish when you lot least expect it.” Harry says not turning his gaze to look at me but rather stare at the fresh mound of packed earth.

  “I worry for everyone these days, you just have a special place of worry that borders on terror.” I reply with a weak grin. Harry finally flicks his gaze up to look at me, and returns a small smile.

  “Well don’t let your worry for me make you leave the tent without shoes, you’ll be the one half dead in a few moments if we don’t get you back to warm up.” Harry says getting to his feet and leading the way back to the tent. My feet register all the little pebbles, twigs, and hard ground on the way back punishing me for my folly.

  When we get back to the tent I quickly clean my feet and thank Merlin that no injuries occurred, and I joined Harry at the table quietly talking of better times at Hogwarts while we waited for Hermione and Ron to wake up. When the pair of them do get up an hour later (the lazy bums), they are full of opinions on what to do next when prompted.

  Harry and Hermione feel that it is best not to stay anywhere too long, and Ron agrees, with the sole proviso that our next move takes us within reach of a bacon sandwich. I don’t honestly care, as long as we’re safe. Hermione therefore removes the enchantments she has placed around the clearing with some help from me, while Harry and Ron obliterate all the marks and impressions on the ground that may show we camped there. Then we Disapparate to the outskirts of a small market town.

  Once we have pitched the tent in the shelter of a small copse of trees and surround it with freshly cast defensive enchantments, Harry ventures out under the Invisibility Cloak to find sustenance. This, however, does not go as planned. I’m barely getting the teakettle to pour some tea for us all before Harry comes bursting back into the tent. There is only one word that he mutters. Dementors.

  I grit my teeth not liking that those soul-sucking beasts were out there relatively near us.

  “But you can make a brilliant Patronus!” protests Ron.

  “I couldn’t . . . make one,” Harry pants, clutching the stitch in his side. “Wouldn’t . . . come.”

  Well that is scary and frankly very dreadful news. Harry looks down in shame at his shaking hands, and I feel bad, for possibly causing him more distress.

  “So we still haven’t got any food.” Ron says grumpily.

  “Shut up, Ron,” snaps Hermione. “Harry, what happened? Why do you think you couldn’t make your Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday!”

  “I don’t know.” Harry says, sinking down into one of the old armchairs.

  Ron kicks a chair leg.

  “What?” he snarls at Hermione. “I’m starving! All I’ve had since I bled half to death is a couple of toadstools!”

  “You go and fight your way through the dementors, then,” says Harry, stung.

  “Guys lets just take a breath and figure out what we need to do.” I say, beginning to grow anxious at the way that my friends are all acting.

  “I would, but my arm’s in a sling, in case you hadn’t noticed!” Ron growls.

  “That’s convenient.” Harry fires back

  “And what’s that supposed to — ?”

  “Of course!” cries Hermione, clapping a hand to her forehead and startling both of them into silence. I wonder what she’s come up with now? “Harry, give me the locket! Come on,” she says impatiently, clicking her fingers at him when he does not react, “the Horcrux, Harry, you’re still wearing it!”

  She holds out her hands, and Harry lifts the golden chain over his head. Once the Horcrux is off him, it seems like a weight is lifted off Harry’s shoulder, and that he can breathe properly again.

  “Better?” asks Hermione.

  “Yeah, loads better!” Harry responds with a relieved smile.

  “Its cursed then, shouldn’t expect anything less from old Snake Eyes.” I grumble, glaring at the locket evilly.

  “Harry,” Hermione says, crouching down in front of him and using the kind of voice I think of using when visiting the very sick, “you don’t think you’ve been possessed or cursed, do you?”

  “What? No!” he says defensively. “I remember everything we’ve done while I’ve been wearing it. I wouldn’t know what I’d done if I’d been possessed, would I? Ginny told me there were times when she couldn’t remember anything.”

  “Hmm,” says Hermione, looking down at the heavy gold locket. “Well, maybe we ought not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent.”

  “We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around,” Harry states firmly. “If we lose it, if it gets stolen —”

  “Oh, all right, all right,” says Hermione, and she places it around her own neck and tucks it out of sight down the front of her shirt. “But we’ll take turns wearing it, so nobody keeps it on too long.”

  “At least we know that nobody is getting cursed or possessed now.” I say, trying to keep an upbeat mood since no one else can. Internally though, I’m panicking at the thought of when my turn comes about to wear that thing.

  “Great,” says Ron irritably, “and now we’ve sorted that out, can we please get some food?”

  “Fine, but we’ll go somewhere else to find it,” says Hermione with half a glance at Harry. “There’s no point staying where we know dementors are swooping around.”

  In the end we settle down for the night in a far-flung field belonging to a lonely farm, from which we manage to obtain eggs and bread.

  “It’s not stealing, is it?” asks Hermione in a troubled voice, as we devour scrambled eggs on toast. “Not if I left some money under the chicken coop?”

  “Shouldn’t be, not like we’re going to make a habit of it right?” I say taking a sip of water to wash down my food.

  Ron rolls his eyes and says, with his cheeks bulging, “’Er-my-nee, ’oo worry ’oo much. ’Elax!”

  And, indeed, it is much easier to relax when we are comfortably well fed: The argument about the dementors is forgotten in laughter that night, and Harry seems cheerful, even hopeful, as he takes the first of the three night watches.

  This was our first encounter with the fact that a full stomach means good spirits an empty one, bickering and gloom. Harry is least surprised by this, because he has suffered periods of near starvation at the Dursleys’. Hermione bears up reasonably well on those nights when we manage to scavenge nothing but berries or stale biscuits, her temper perhaps a little shorter than usual and her silences rather dour. Ron, however, has always been used to three delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or of the Hogwarts house-elves, and hunger makes him both unreasonable and irascible. Whenever lack of food coincides with Ron’s turn to wear the Horcrux, he becomes downright unpleasant. When hungry I become agitated, and the need to do something— anything to distract myself from the hunger is of the utmost importance.

  That comes to wearing the Horcrux. I absolutely loathe that thing, and am more than a little bit afraid of it. I think that I hide it well though, when it comes to my time to wear it. Its like the bloody thing seeks out my fears and anxieties and latches onto them, making me feel like I am always two steps away from a mental breakdown, and sleep is a hilarious concepts since, it amplified and twists my nightmares into a constant showcase. Hermione tried brewing me a tea to knock me out, but it doesn’t work. So the nights I have to wear the locket, I get no sleep.

  It wasn’t my turn to wear the locket but Ron’s.

  “So where next?” is his constant refrain. He does not seem to have any ideas himself, but expects Harry, Hermione, and me to come up with plans while he sits and broods over the low food supplies. Accordingly Harry, Hermione, and I spend fruitless hours trying to decide where we might find the other Horcruxes, and how to destroy the one we already have, our conversations becoming increasingly repetitive as we have no new information. It makes the headaches that I have grow three times larger.

  As Dumbledore told Harry that he believed Voldemort had hidden the Horcruxes in places important to him, we keep reciting, in a sort of dreary litany, those locations we know that Voldemort has lived or visited. The orphanage where he was born and raised; Hogwarts, where he was educated; Borgin and Burkes, where he worked after completing school; then Albania, where he spent his years of exile: These form the basis of our speculations. Not much, but at least something.

  The only thing that we keeping me relatively sane at this point was clutching my necklace in my hand, and feeling the comforting, reassuring heat that comes from my love. I find myself becoming more and more sentimental and romantic as the time and distance separates us. I have even been penning her letters whenever I have the chance, and always stow them away for safe keeping since I can’t mail them.

  “Yeah, let’s go to Albania. Shouldn’t take more than an afternoon to search an entire country,” says Ron sarcastically. The acid in his voice makes my head shoot up from looking down at my necklace for I was lost in thought.

  “There can’t be anything there. He’d already made five of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth,” says Hermione.   “We know the snake’s not in Albania, it’s usually with Vol —”

  “Didn’t I ask you to stop saying that?” Ron growls.

  “Fine! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who — happy?” Hermione shoots back.

  “Not particularly.”

  I clench my fists in an attempt to stop my magic from flaring. The constant bad attitude from Ron has been getting to me lately, and I find myself having an even harder time getting my magic under control.

  “I can’t see him hiding anything at Borgin and Burkes,” says Harry, who has made this point many times before, but says it again simply to break the nasty silence. “Borgin and Burke were experts at Dark objects, they would’ve recognized a Horcrux straightaway.”

  “They could have been paid or cursed not to sell it and protect it.” I suggest through a shaky voice, trying with all my power to contain the growing energy within me.

  Ron yawns pointedly, and my magic spike lighting my hands first with blue flame. Looing ready to kill Ron, Harry plows on, “I still reckon he might have hidden something at Hogwarts.”

  Hermione sighs.

  “But Dumbledore would have found it, Harry!”

  Harry repeats the argument he keeps bringing out in favor of this theory.

  “Dumbledore said in front of me that he never assumed he knew all of Hogwarts’s secrets. I’m telling you, if there was one place Vol —”

  “Oi!” Ron shouts.

  “YOU-KNOW-WHO, then!” Harry bellows, goaded past endurance. “If there was one place that was really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!”

  “Oh, come on,” scoffs Ron. “His school?”

  “Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place that meant he was special; it meant everything to him, and even after he left —”

  “This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, right? Not you?” inquires Ron. He is tugging at the chain of the Horcrux around his neck: Harry looks like he has a desire to seize it and throttle him. Meanwhile I have managed to calm myself slightly down to small baby flames, repeating the calming words of Ariana in my head.

  “You told us that You-Know-Who asked Dumbledore to give him a job after he left,” says Hermione.

  “That’s right,” says Harry.

  “And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come back to try and find something, probably another founder’s object, to make into another Horcrux?”

  “Yeah,” says Harry.

  “But he didn’t get the job, did he?” says Hermione. “So he never got the chance to find a founder’s object there and hide it in the school!”

  “Okay, then,” says Harry, defeated. “Forget Hogwarts.”

  While packing up, I make my way cautiously over to Harry and kneel down beside him. “I think Hogwarts makes sense as well. I may not have been completely alone like you, but I was an orphan as well, and that place literally is the first place that really felt like home. You don’t need to be a good person to get that feeling.” I say before, going back to my duties. I do catch the grateful smile on Harry’s face though.

  Without any other leads, we travel into London and, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, search for the orphanage in which Voldemort was raised. Hermione slips into a library and discovers from their records that the place was demolished many years before. We visit its site and find a tower block of offices.

  “We could try digging in the foundations?” Hermione suggests halfheartedly.

  “He wouldn’t have hidden a Horcrux here,” Harry says. I can tell from the gleam in Harry’s eyes that he feels vindicated, by this development.

  Even without any new ideas, we continue to move through the countryside, pitching the tent in a different place each night for security. Every morning we make sure that we have removed all clues to our presence, then set off to find another lonely and secluded spot, traveling by Apparition to more woods, to the shadowy crevices of cliffs, to purple moors, gorse-covered mountainsides, and once a sheltered and pebbly cove. Every twelve hours or so we pass the Horcrux between us as though we are playing some perverse, slow-motion game of pass-the-parcel, where we dread the music stopping because the reward is twelve hours of increased fear and anxiety.

  Harry’s scar keeps prickling. It happened most often, I notice from his reactions, when he is wearing the Horcrux. Sometimes he cannot stop himself reacting to the pain.

  “What? What did you see?” demands Ron, whenever he notices Harry wince.

  “A face,” mutters Harry, every time. “The same face. The thief who stole from Gregorovitch.”

  And Ron will turn away, making no effort to hide his disappointment. I know that Ron wants Harry to see something about our family. That has been an increasing point of fights between the two of us, Ron accusing me of not caring for the family that took me in, only my girlfriend, and me shouting at Ron that I do nothing but worry about all of them, and that Ariana is my only point of connection to them.

  Its even gotten so heated before that Harry and Hermione have had to hold us back from each other. This usually happens when one of us is wearing the Horcrux. Either Harry or Hermione would take it off of us, and Ron would deflate, or I would burst into tears.

  As the days stretch into weeks, Harry begins to suspect that Ron and Hermione are having conversations without, and about, him. Several times they stop talking abruptly when Harry enters the tent, and twice he comes accidentally upon them, huddled a little distance away, heads together and talking fast; both times they fall silent when they realize he is approaching them and hasten to appear busy collecting wood or water.

  When Harry approached me with his worry, I give him a stressed smile, and pat the seat across from me so that he can sit. I push aside the letter that I have been scrawling on pouring my heart out to an absent girlfriend I may never see again. Once Harry has settled in the chair I sigh. “I think that they fancy each other. They’ve been playing this game for so long, and now there is no one else around to stop them. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. These situations make you long for someone close.” I say glumly.

  Harry is silent for so long that I give up hope that he is actually going to respond when he opens his mouth. “I miss Ginny. Don’t tell Ron that, but I really do.” Harry says swallowing hard. A sad smile slips onto my lips.

  “I miss her too. It’s okay to miss them Harry, I miss Ariana sometimes it hurts so much, and then I feel guilty about missing her more than my parents and siblings. But Harry, there is no shame in needing to hold onto someone, at least I think there’s not…” I say pensively looking down at what must be my twentieth letter by now. Harry glances at the paper as well.

  “Does it help any? Writing to her I mean?” Harry asks looking slightly hopeful. I pull the letter back over to me.

  “It calms me down, I don’t know if she’ll ever read it so it’s as much for me as it is for her, but I can’t help but feel that its always been easier to talk about my feelings to her than to anyone else.” I explain. Seeing the multitude of emotions warring on Harry’s face, I slide a fresh sheet of paper across the table to him, and place a quill on top of it.

  It takes a moment, but then Harry starts to write.

 

* * *

 

 

  Autumn rolls over the countryside as we move through it: we are now pitching the tent on mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists join those cast by the dementors; wind and rain add to our troubles. The fact that Hermione is getting better at identifying edible fungi cannot altogether compensate for our continuing isolation, the lack of other people’s company, or their total ignorance of what is going on in the war against Voldemort.

  “My mother,” says Ron one night, as we sit in the tent on a riverbank in Wales, “can make good food appear out of thin air.”

  “Ron…” I say with a sigh, not ready for another round of attitude.

  He prods moodily at the lumps of charred gray fish on his plate. I glance automatically at Ron’s neck and see, as I expected, the golden chain of the Horcrux glinting there. Harry looks like he’s fighting down the impulse to swear at Ron, whose attitude will, we know, improve slightly when the time comes to take off the locket.

  “Your mother can’t produce food out of thin air,” says Hermione. “No one can. Food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfigur —”

  “Oh, speak English, can’t you?” Ron says, prising a fish bone out from between his teeth.

  “It’s impossible to make good food out of nothing! You can Summon it if you know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quantity if you’ve already got some —”

  “Well, don’t bother increasing this, it’s disgusting,” says Ron.

  “Ron!” I cry trying to pend of an explosion by Hermione even though it’s already too late, and my head throbs with the need for quiet.

  “Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I notice that Jamie and I are always the ones who ends up sorting out the food, because we’re girls, I suppose!”

  “No, it’s because you’re supposed to be the best at magic! Jamie’s not half bad either.” shoots back Ron. I try and let the blow at my ego roll off me like usual, since Ron and I are barely speaking at this point as it is.

  Hermione jumps up and bits of roast pike slide off her tin plate onto the floor.

  “You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find the ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I’ll sit here and pull faces and moan and you can see how you —”

  “Shut up!” says Harry, leaping to his feet and holding up both hands. “Shut up now!”

  Hermione looks outraged.

  “How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook —”

  “Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!” Harry hisses.

  He looks to be listening hard, his hands still raised, warning them not to talk. Then, over the rush and gush of the dark river beside us, we hear voices again. Harry looks around at the Sneakoscope. It is not moving.

  “You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?” he whispers to Hermione.

  “I did everything,” she whispers back, “Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn’t be able to hear or see us, whoever they are.”

  Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of dislodged stones and twigs, tell us that several people are clambering down the steep, wooded slope that descends to the narrow bank where we have pitched the tent. We draw our wands, waiting. The enchantments we have cast around ourselves ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to shield us from the notice of Muggles and normal witches and wizards. If these are Death Eaters, then perhaps our defenses are about to be tested by Dark Magic for the first time.

  The voices become louder but no more intelligible as a group of men reach the bank. I estimate that their owners are fewer than twenty feet away, but the cascading river makes it impossible to tell for sure. Hermione snatches up the beaded bag and starts to rummage; after a moment she draws out four Extendable Ears and throws one each to Harry, Ron, and me, who hastily insert the ends of the flesh-colored strings into our ears and feed the other ends out of the tent entrance.

  Within seconds I hear a weary male voice.

  “There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d’you reckon it’s too early in the season? Accio Salmon!”

  There are several distinct splashes and then the slapping sounds of fish against flesh. Somebody grunts appreciatively. I press the Extendable Ear deeper into my own: Over the murmur of the river I can make out more voices, but they are not speaking English or any human language I have ever heard. It is a rough and unmelodious tongue, a string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seems to be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower voice than the other. I could recognize goblin speak anywhere.

  A fire dances into life on the other side of the canvas; large shadows pass between tent and flames. The delicious smell of baking salmon wafts tantalizingly in our direction. Then comes the clinking of cutlery on plates, and the first man speaks again.

  “Here, Griphook, Gornuk.”

  I ignored Harry and Hermione mouthing of Goblins to each other.

  “Thank you,” say the goblins together in English.

  “So, you three have been on the run how long?” asks a new, mellow, and pleasant voice; it is vaguely familiar to me, I picture a round-bellied, cheerful-faced man.

  “Six weeks . . . seven . . . I forget,” says the tired man. “Met up with Griphook in the first couple of days and joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a bit of company.” There is a pause, while knives scrape plates and tin mugs are picked up and replaced on the ground. “What made you leave, Ted?” continues the man.

  “Knew they were coming for me,” replies mellow-voiced Ted, and I suddenly know who he is: Tonks’s father. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area last week and decided I’d better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggle-born on principle, see, so I knew it was a matter of time, knew I’d have to leave in the end. My wife should be okay, she’s pure-blood. And then I met Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?”

  “Yeah,” says another voice, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stare at each other, silent but beside ourselves with excitement, sure we recognize the voice of Dean Thomas, our fellow Gryffindor.

  “Muggle-born, eh?” asks the first man.

  “Not sure,” says Dean. “My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I’ve got no proof he was a wizard, though.”

  There is silence for a while, except for the sounds of munching; then Ted speaks again.

  “I’ve got to say, Dirk, I’m surprised to run into you. Pleased, but surprised. Word was you’d been caught.”

  “I was,” says Dirk. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it, Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon he’s quite right at the moment. Might be Confunded. If so, I’d like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard who did it, probably saved my life.”

  There is another pause in which the fire crackles and the river rushes on. Then Ted says, “And where do you two fit in? I, er, had the impression the goblins were for You-Know-Who, on the whole.”

  “You had a false impression,” says the higher-voiced of the goblins. “We take no sides. This is a wizards’ war.”

  “How come you’re in hiding, then?”

  “I deemed it prudent,” says the deeper-voiced goblin. “Having refused what I considered an impertinent request, I could see that my personal safety was in jeopardy.”

  “What did they ask you to do?” asks Ted.

  “Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race,” replies the goblin, his voice rougher and less human as he says it. “I am not a house-elf.”

  “What about you, Griphook?”

  “Similar reasons,” says the higher-voiced goblin. “Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my race. I recognize no Wizarding master.”

  He adds something under his breath in Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughs.

  “What’s the joke?” asks Dean.

  “He said,” replies Dirk, “that there are things wizards don’t recognize, either.”

  There is a short pause.

  “I don’t get it,” says Dean.

  “I had my small revenge before I left,” says Griphook in English.

  “Good man — goblin, I should say,” amends Ted hastily. “Didn’t manage to lock a Death Eater up in one of the old high-security vaults, I suppose?”

  “If I had, the sword would not have helped him break out,” replies Griphook.   Gornuk laughs again and even Dirk gives a dry chuckle.

  “Dean and I are still missing something here,” says Ted.

  “So is Severus Snape, though he does not know it,” says Griphook, and the two goblins roar with malicious laughter. Inside the tent Harry’s breathing is shallow with excitement: He, Hermione, and I stare at each other, listening as hard as we can.

  “Didn’t you hear about that, Ted?” asks Dirk. “About the kids who tried to steal Gryffindor’s sword out of Snape’s office at Hogwarts?”

  An electric current seems to course through me, jangling my every nerve as I stand rooted to the spot.

  “Never heard a word,” says Ted. “Not in the Prophet, was it?”

  “Hardly,” chortles Dirk. “Griphook here told me, he heard about it from Bill Weasley who works for the bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was Bill’s younger sister and brother, along with his other sister’s girlfriend.”

  Fear grips me on the spot not Ginny, Ariana, and Luka. What were those three thinking?

  “Them and a couple of friends got into Snape’s office and smashed open the glass case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase.”

  “Ah, God bless ’em,” says Ted. “What did they think, that they’d be able to use the sword on You-Know-Who? Or on Snape himself?”

  “Well, whatever they thought they were going to do with it, Snape decided the sword wasn’t safe where it was,” says Dirk. “Couple of days later, once he’d got the say-so from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead.”

  The goblins start to laugh again.

  “I’m still not seeing the joke,” says Ted.

  “It’s a fake,” rasps Griphook. Well this is interesting.

  “The sword of Gryffindor!”

  “Oh yes. It is a copy — an excellent copy, it is true — but it was Wizard-made. The original was forged centuries ago by goblins and had certain properties only goblin-made armor possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at Gringotts bank.”

  “I see,” says Ted. “And I take it you didn’t bother telling the Death Eaters this?”

  “I saw no reason to trouble them with the information,” says Griphook smugly, and now Ted and Dean join in Gornuk and Dirk’s laughter.

  Thankfully the next question is what I have been practically dying to hear.

  “What happened to Ginny and the others? The ones who tried to steal it?” Dean asks, and I remember that he used to be a boyfriend of my sister’s as well.

  “Oh, they were punished, and cruelly,” says Griphook indifferently. I grit my teeth at that reaching up to clutch my necklace, and send thoughts Ariana’s way.

  “They’re okay, though?” asks Ted quickly. “I mean, the Weasleys don’t need any more of their kids injured, do they?”

  “They suffered no serious injury, as far as I am aware,” says Griphook.

  “Lucky for them,” says Ted. “With Snape’s track record I suppose we should just be glad they’re still alive.”

  “You believe that story, then, do you, Ted?” asks Dirk. “You believe Snape killed Dumbledore?”

  “’Course I do,” says Ted. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me you think Potter had anything to do with it?”

  “Hard to know what to believe these days,” mutters Dirk.

  “I know Harry Potter,” says Dean. “And I reckon he’s the real thing — the Chosen One, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot would like to believe he’s that, son,” says Dirk, “me included. But where is he? Run for it, by the looks of things. You’d think, if he knew anything we don’t, or had anything special going for him, he’d be out there now fighting, rallying resistance, instead of hiding. And you know, the Prophet made a pretty good case against him —”

  “The Prophet?” scoffs Ted. “You deserve to be lied to if you’re still reading that muck, Dirk. You want the facts, try the Quibbler.”

  There is a sudden explosion of choking and retching, plus a good deal of thumping; by the sound of it, Dirk swallowed a fish bone. At last he splutters, “The Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Xeno Lovegood’s?”

  “It’s not so lunatic these days,” says Ted. “You want to give it a look. Xeno is printing all the stuff the Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter their number-one priority.”

  “Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the earth,” says Dirk.

  “Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s one hell of an achievement,” says Ted. “I’d take tips from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” says Dirk heavily. “With the whole of the Ministry and all their informers looking for him I’d have expected him to be caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t already caught and killed him without publicizing it?”

  “Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” murmurs Ted.

  There is a long pause filled with more clattering of knives and forks. When they speak again it is to discuss whether they ought to sleep on the bank or retreat back up the wooded slope. Deciding the trees will give better cover they extinguish their fire, then clamber back up the incline, their voices fading away.

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I reel in the Extendable Ears. Harry, who seems to find the need to remain silent increasingly difficult the longer we eavesdrop, now finds himself unable to say more than, “Ginny — the sword —”

  “I know!” says Hermione.

  “Oh Luka… Ariana…” I moan thinking about what my family and girlfriend have managed to do now. Those incredibly brave stupid idiots.

  Hermione lunges for the tiny beaded bag, this time sinking her arm in it right up to the armpit.

  “Here . . . we . . . are . . .” she says between gritted teeth, and she pulls at something that is evidently in the depths of the bag. Slowly the edge of an ornate picture frame comes into sight. Harry and I hurry to help her. As we lift the empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus free of Hermione’s bag, she keeps her wand pointing at it, ready to cast a spell at any moment.

  “If somebody swapped the real sword for the fake while it was in Dumbledore’s office,” she pants, as we prop the painting against the side of the tent, “Phineas Nigellus would have seen it happen, he hangs right beside the case!”

  “Let’s hope so.” I breathe, needing to know exactly what happened.

  “Unless he was asleep,” says Harry, but he still holds his breath with me as Hermione kneels down in front of the empty canvas, her wand directed at its center, clears her throat, then says:

  “Er — Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?”

  Nothing happens.

  “Phineas Nigellus?” says Hermione again. “Professor Black? Please could we talk to you? Please?”

  “‘Please’ always helps,” says a cold, snide voice, and Phineas Nigellus slides into his portrait. At once, Hermione cries:

  “Obscuro!”

  A black blindfold appears over Phineas Nigellus’s clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame and shriek with pain.

  “What — how dare — what are you — ?”

  “I’m very sorry, Professor Black,” says Hermione, “but it’s a necessary precaution!”

  “Remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I say! You are ruining a great work of art! Where am I? What is going on?”

  “Please calm down Professor Black.” I say not wanting the painted man to be any more alarmed.

  “Never mind where we are,” says Harry, and Phineas Nigellus freezes, abandoning his attempts to peel off the painted blindfold.

  “Can that possibly be the voice of the elusive Mr. Potter?”

  “Maybe,” says Harry, knowing that this will keep Phineas Nigellus’s interest. “We’ve got a couple of questions to ask you — about the sword of Gryffindor.”

  “Ah,” says Phineas Nigellus, now turning his head this way and that in an effort to catch sight of Harry, “yes. That silly girl acted most unwisely there —”

  “Shut up about my sister,” says Ron roughly. Phineas Nigellus raises supercilious eyebrows.

  “Who else is here?” he asks, turning his head from side to side. “Your tone displeases me! The girl and her friends were foolhardy in the extreme. Thieving from the headmaster!”

  “They weren’t thieving,” I say quickly. “That sword isn’t Snape’s.”

  “It belongs to Professor Snape’s school,” says Phineas Nigellus. “Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl have upon it? She deserved her punishment, as did her ‘brother’, the Dumbledore girl, as well as the idiot Longbottom and the Lovegood oddity!”

  “Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!” says Hermione.

  “It would be wise to change your tone professor.” I say softly, very much angry, but trying to contain it.

  “Where am I?” repeats Phineas Nigellus, starting to wrestle with the blindfold again. “Where have you brought me? Why have you removed me from the house of my forebears?”

  “Never mind that! How did Snape punish Ginny, Luka, Ariana, Neville, and Luna?” asks Harry urgently.

  “Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest, to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid.”

  “Hagrid’s not an oaf!” says Hermione shrilly. I reach out a shaking hand and put it on her shoulder trying to reassure myself as well as her.

  “And Snape might’ve thought that was a punishment,” says Harry, “but Ginny, Neville, Luka, Luna, and Ariana probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The Forbidden Forest . . . they’ve faced plenty worse than the Forbidden Forest, big deal!”

  Relief floods through my body leaving me shakier than before.

  “What we really wanted to know, Professor Black, is whether anyone else has, um, taken out the sword at all? Maybe it’s been taken away for cleaning or — or something?” Hermione says.

  Phineas Nigellus pauses again in his struggles to free his eyes and sniggers.

  “Muggle-borns,” he says. “Goblin-made armor does not require cleaning, simple girl. Goblins’ silver repels mundane dirt, imbibing only that which strengthens it.”

  “Don’t call Hermione simple,” I snap.

  “I grow weary of contradiction,” says Phineas Nigellus. “Perhaps it is time for me to return to the headmaster’s office?”

  Still blindfolded, he begins groping the side of his frame, trying to feel his way out of his picture and back into the one at Hogwarts. Harry has a sudden inspiration.

  “Dumbledore! Can’t you bring us Dumbledore?”

  “I beg your pardon?” asks Phineas Nigellus.

  “Professor Dumbledore’s portrait — couldn’t you bring him along, here, into yours?”

  Phineas Nigellus turns his face in the direction of Harry’s voice.

  “Evidently it is not only Muggle-borns who are ignorant, Potter. The portraits of Hogwarts may commune with each other, but they cannot travel outside the castle except to visit a painting of themselves hanging elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot come here with me, and after the treatment I have received at your hands, I can assure you that I shall not be making a return visit!”

  Well that was interesting to say the least. We can’t give up though.

  “Professor Black,” I say using all my high society training, “couldn’t you just tell us, please, when was the last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I mean?”

  Phineas snorts impatiently.

  “I believe that the last time I saw the sword of Gryffindor leave its case was when Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.”

  Hermione whips around to look at Harry and me. Neither of us dare say more in front of Phineas Nigellus, who has at last managed to locate the exit.

  “Well, good night to you,” he says a little waspishly, and he begins to move out of sight again. Only the edge of his hat brim remains in view when Harry gives a sudden shout.

  “Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?”

  Phineas Nigellus sticks his blindfolded head back into the picture.

  “Professor Snape has more important things on his mind than the many eccentricities of Albus Dumbledore. Good-bye, Potter!”

  And with that, he vanishes completely, leaving behind him nothing but his murky backdrop. Well thank Merlin that they’re okay. They are risking too much, but at least they’re okay.

  “Harry!” Hermione cries.

  “I know!” Harry shouts. Unable to contain himself, he punches the air. Hermione is squashing Phineas Nigellus’s portrait back into the beaded bag; when she has fastened the clasp she throws the bag aside and raises a shining face to Harry and me.

  “The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades imbibe only that which strengthen them — Harry, that sword’s impregnated with basilisk venom!”

  “That means that it can kill Horcruxes like the diary!” I cry, finally getting excited about this journey.

  “And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket —”

  “— and he must have realized they wouldn’t let you have it if he put it in his will —”

  “— so he made a copy —”

  “— and put a fake in the glass case —”

  “— and he left the real one — where?”

  We gaze at each other; I feel that the answer is dangling invisibly in the air above us, tantalizingly close.

  “Think!” whispers Hermione. “Think! Where would he have left it?”

  “Not at Hogwarts,” I say, thinking that would be too easy.

  “Somewhere in Hogsmeade?” suggests Hermione.

  “The Shrieking Shack?” says Harry. “Nobody ever goes in there.”

  “But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn’t that be a bit risky?” I say remembering the disaster of third year.

  “Dumbledore trusted Snape,” Harry reminds me.

  “Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the swords,” says Hermione.

  “Yeah, you’re right!” says Harry looking pleased that Dumbledore had dome reservations about Snape, however small. “So, would he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d’you reckon, Ron? Ron?”

  Harry and I look around. My heart leaps into my throat at the thought of him hone, for even though we’re fighting, he’s still my brother. I relax slightly when I realize that Ron is lying in the shadow of a lower bunk, looking stony.

  “Oh, remembered me, have you?” he says.

  “What?”

  Ron snorts as he stares up at the underside of the upper bunk.

  “You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”

  Perplexed, Harry and I look to Hermione for help, but she shakes her head, apparently as nonplussed as we are.

  “What’s the problem?” asks Harry.

  “Problem? There’s no problem,” says Ron, still refusing to look at Harry. “Not according to you, anyway.”

  There are several plunks on the canvas over our heads. It has started to rain. A shiver runs down my spine, I don’t like the direction this conversation is going in at all.

  “Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,” says Harry. “Spit it out, will you?”

  Ron swings his long legs off the bed and sits up. He looks mean, unlike himself.

  “All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up and down the tent because there’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know?” repeats Harry. “I don’t know?”

  “Ron.” I start softly unsure if I should even try to speak.

  Plunk, plunk, plunk. The rain is falling harder and heavier; it patters on the leaf-strewn bank all around us and into the river chattering through the dark. Harry looks pale, like something he was dreading is happening.

  “It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here,” says Ron, “you know, with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been running round a few weeks, we’d have achieved something.”

  “Ron,” Hermione says, but in such a quiet voice that Ron can pretend not to have heard it over the loud tattoo the rain is now beating on the tent.

  “I thought you knew what you’d signed up for,” says Harry.

  “Yeah, I thought I did too.”

  “So what part of it isn’t living up to your expectations?” asks Harry. Anger is coming to his defense now. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?”

  “We thought you knew what you were doing!” shouts Ron, standing up. “We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!”

  “Ron that’s not fair!” I cry. Hermione must have the same feeling.

  “Ron!” says Hermione, this time clearly audible over the rain thundering on the tent roof, but again, he ignores her and me.

  “Well, sorry to let you down,” says Harry, his voice quite despite the look on his face. “I’ve been straight with you from the start, I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve found one Horcrux —”

  “Yeah, and we’re about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest of them — nowhere effing near, in other words!”

  “Take off the locket, Ron,” Hermione says, her voice unusually high. “Please take it off. You wouldn’t be talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.”

  “Yeah, he would,” says Harry, who does not want excuses made for Ron. “D’you think I haven’t noticed the two of you whispering behind my back? D’you think I didn’t guess you were thinking this stuff?”

  “Harry, we weren’t —” Hermione tries.

  “Don’t lie!” Ron hurls at her. “You said it too, you said you were disappointed, you said you’d thought he had a bit more to go on than —”

  “I didn’t say it like that — Harry, I didn’t!” she cries. Harry turns to look at me hurling an ‘I told you so’ look at me, making me lower my head in shame. I can’t account for everyone and their feelings all the time!

  The rain is pounding the tent, tears are pouring down Hermione’s face, and the excitement of a few minutes before has vanished as if it never was, a short-lived firework that flared and died, leaving everything dark, wet, and cold. The sword of Gryffindor is hidden we know not where, and we are four teenagers in a tent whose only achievement is not, yet, to be dead.

  “So why are you still here?” Harry asks Ron.

  “Search me,” says Ron.

  “Ron, please.” I say my voice breaking.

  “Go home then,” says Harry.

  “Yeah, maybe I will!” shouts Ron, and he takes several steps towards Harry, who does not back away. “Didn’t you hear what they said about my sister and brother? But you don’t give a rat’s fart, do you, it’s only the Forbidden Forest, Harry I’ve-Faced-Worse Potter doesn’t care what happens to her in here — well, I do, all right, giant spiders and mental stuff —”

  “We survived Ron.” I point out quietly.

  “You— don’t get to talk.” Ron growls, and I back away slightly, unused to this version of my brother.

  “I was only saying — she was with the others, they were with Hagrid —”

  “Yeah, I get it, you don’t care! And what about the rest of my family, ‘the Weasleys don’t need another kid injured,’ did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, I —”

  “Not bothered what it meant, though?”

  “Ron!” says Hermione, forcing her way between them. “I don’t think it means anything new has happened, anything we don’t know about; think, Ron, Bill’s already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you’re supposed to be on your deathbed along with Jamie with spattergroit, I’m sure that’s all he meant —”

  “Oh, you’re sure, are you? Right then, well, I won’t bother myself about them. It’s all right for you two, isn’t it, with your parents safely out of the way —”

  “My parents are dead!” Harry bellows.

  “And mine could be going the same way!” yells Ron.

  “Then GO!” roars Harry. “Go back to them, pretend you’ve got over your spattergroit and Mummy’ll be able to feed you up and —”

  Ron makes a sudden movement: Harry reacts, but before either wand is clear of its owner’s pocket, Hermione has raised her own.

  “Protego!” she cries, and an invisible shield expands between her, Harry, and me on the one side and Ron on the other; all of us are forced backwards a few steps by the strength of the spell, and Harry and Ron glare from either side of the transparent barrier as though they are seeing each other clearly for the first time. Something has broken between them it seems.

  “Leave the Horcrux,” Harry says.

  Ron wrenches the chain from over his head and casts the locket into a nearby chair. He turned to me. “Are you coming?” He demands, his eyes hard but there is a part of them begging me to go alone with.

  “Ron, I can’t, this is for all of us, and them.” I say, feeling tears beginning to sting my eyes. Ron’s eyes harden and narrow at me.

  “I knew you wouldn’t come. You don’t care about my mum and dad. You don’t care about any of them! You care so much about Harry, that I’m sure that Ariana is going to have to question your love to her. As far as I can tell, you’re not my sister, for my sister would never abandon our family this way.” Ron yells.

  I don’t have anything to say to that, the pain that had been growing in my chest had blossomed to an all encompassing pain. Tears were running down my cheeks unhindered. Ron turned his attention to Hermione now that he was done with me.

  “What are you doing?” Ron croaks sounding a little more defeated now.

  “What do you mean?” Hermione asks.

  “Are you staying, or what?”

  “I . . .” She looks anguished. “Yes — yes, I’m staying. Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help —”

  “I get it. You choose him.”

  “Ron, no — please — come back, come back!”

  She is impeded by her own Shield Charm by the time she has removed it he has already stormed into the night. Harry stands quite still and silent, listening to her sobbing and calling Ron’s name amongst the trees, while I sink down to the ground, burying my face in my hands.

  After a few minutes she returns, her sopping hair plastered to her face.

  “He’s g-g-gone! Disapparated!”

  She throws herself into a chair, curls up, and starts to cry. I only pay attention long enough to watch Harry put the Horcrux over his own head, help me up and to my bunk, before throwing Ron’s blanket over Hermione’s body.

  That night with a tear streaked face, I couldn’t help but feel unbelievably cold, despite, the hot almost scalding heat of my necklace against my collarbone. I don’t deserve her— not even her thoughts.


	12. Godric's Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 12- Godric’s Hollow

 

  The next morning comes all too soon. When I pry my eyes open, it feels like I only went to sleep minutes before, but the sun on my face tells me differently. The memory of Ron walking away from us, and abandoning us is still fresh in my mind. The hurtful words that he spewed echo in my ears, but I shake my head, reminding myself that Ron didn’t really mean them. At the time maybe, but it was mostly the Horcrux that made him say those things.

  I change my pants and shirt having fallen asleep in my clothes from yesterday, and determine that I am going to at least attempt to get things done today instead of sit around and worry. After pulling my Weasley family sweater over my head, I adjust the necklace around my neck so that the comforting warmth hums against my sternum.

  “Thank you Ari. You don’t know how much you’re helping me, even when you’re not here.” I whisper to it, kissing the metal, and grinning as heat flares up from it in response. She should be in class right about now, and not thinking of me, but the thought warms me from where I was so cold last night. I make my way into the kitchen to see a morose and silent Hermione, and a brooding Harry at the table.

  I smile at each of them hoping to lighten the mood, but if anything the stony looks I receive in return, sucks all the air out of the room. I guess that I should keep my optimism to myself for today. Harry, Hermione, and I ate breakfast in silence. Hermione’s eyes are puffy and red; she looks as if she has not slept.

  They pack up our things, Hermione dawdling. I know why she wants to spin out our time on the riverbank; several times I see her look up eagerly, and I am sure she has deluded herself into thinking that she hears footsteps through the heavy rain, but no red-haired figure appears between the trees. I myself want Ron to come back so that I can know that he is at least safe, but he made his choice, and unfortunately this is the mission that needs to be done so that everyone can be back where they belong.

  The muddy river beside us is rising rapidly and will soon spill over onto our bank. We have lingered a good hour after we would usually have departed our campsite. Finally having entirely repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione seems unable to find any more reasons to delay: She, Harry, and I grasp hands and Disapparate, reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside.

  The instant we arrive, Hermione drops Harry’s and my hand and walks away from us, finally sitting down on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with what I know are sobs. Harry looks after her for a second before walking away and starting our circle of protective enchantments. I make my way over to Hermione slowly and sink down beside her.

  I can practically feel the anguish rolling off her. I ache as well for the loss of Ron, but I know that there is something growing between the two of them, which has her torn up inside from having that big disagreement with him. I reach out my hand and lightly grasp hers, unsure what level of comfort she is wanting to have at the moment, but willing to give all that I have to her.

  I may be stuck in my own problems but that’s no excuse to ignore hers. Slowly Hermione returns the grip of my hand until its almost painful, and leans into my side. I don’t say anything knowing that there is nothing that I can in fact say. A lump forms in my throat when I recognize the wetness on my shoulder. I wish that there was more that I could say or that I could do, but this is something that she needs to get out.

  We do not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. Harry seems determined never to mention his name again, and Hermione seems to know that it is no use forcing the issue, although sometimes at night when she thinks he is sleeping, I can hear her crying. Meanwhile Harry has started bringing out the Marauder’s Map and examining it by wandlight.

  I have looked over his shoulder a few times to check on the dots of Luka, Ginny, and Ariana. Just seeing them, sends relief through me, that at least they are not dead, and I am not being tricked or fooled by imagination.

  By day, we devote ourselves to trying to determine the possible locations of Gryffindor’s sword, but the more we talk about the places in which Dumbledore may have hidden it, the more desperate and far-fetched our speculation becomes. Cudgel his brains though he might, Harry cannot remember Dumbledore ever mentioning a place in which he might hide something. This was a major sore spot for him and for Hermione and I who can’t help but share a glance that Dumbledore really didn’t prepare any of us for this mission.

  We are spending many evenings in near silence (not for lack of me trying to break the atmosphere), and Hermione takes to bringing out Phineas Nigellus’s portrait and propping it up in a chair, as though he might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron’s departure. Despite his previous assertion that he would never visit us again, Phineas Nigellus does not seem able to resist the chance to find out more about what Harry is up to, and consents to reappear, blindfolded, every few days or so.

  We relish any news about what is happening at Hogwarts, though Phineas Nigellus is not an ideal informer. He venerates Snape, the first Slytherin headmaster since he himself controlled the school, and we have to be careful not to criticize or ask impertinent questions about Snape, or Phineas Nigellus will instantly leave his painting.

  However, he does let drop certain snippets. Snape seems to be facing a constant, low level of mutiny from a hard core of students. Ginny has been banned from going into Hogsmeade. Snape has reinstated Umbridge’s old decree forbidding gatherings of three or more students or any unofficial student societies.

  It brings a happy little fire burning inside of me that it seems that Ginny, Luna, Luka, Ariana, and Neville have seemed to try and formed and kept up Dumbledore’s Army again, the time for a resistance group once again needed. It also seemed that the painted man couldn’t help himself with his curiosity about where Harry, Hermione, and I are.

  Indeed, Phineas Nigellus inadvertently emphasizes this fact by slipping in leading questions about Harry, Hermione’s, and my whereabouts. Hermione shoves him back inside the beaded bag every time he does this, and Phineas Nigellus invariably refuses to reappear for several days after these unceremonious good-byes. I always knew that the man was a little bit of a drama queen.

  The weather grows colder and colder. We do not dare remain in any one area too long, so rather than staying in the south of England, where a hard ground frost is the worst of our worries, we continue to meander up and down the country, braving a mountainside, where sleet pounds the tent; a wide, flat marsh, where the tent is flooded with chilly water; and a tiny island in the middle of a Scottish loch, where snow half buries the tent in the night.

  It also happens that I catch a cold, and Hermione being ever prepared as she is forces a Pepperup potion down my throat, forcing away the illness before it can drain me too much.

  We have already spotted Christmas trees twinkling from several sitting room windows before there comes an evening when Harry resolves to suggest, again, what seemed to him the only unexplored avenue left to us. We have just eaten an unusually good meal: Hermione and I went to a supermarket under the Invisibility Cloak (scrupulously dropping the money into an open till as we leave), and Harry seems to think that she may be more persuadable than usual on a stomach full of spaghetti Bolognese and tinned pears. He has also suggested that we take a few hours’ break from wearing the Horcrux (it was my turn), which is now hanging over the end of the bunk beside Harry.

  “Hermione? Jamie?” Harry finally gets up the nerve, to ask the question that I know has been bugging him for hours. I carefully set my pencil down on the letter that I have been crafting to Ariana. There is nothing much interesting to report, just some dreams and ideas that are in my head for a potential future.

  “Hmm?” Hermione is curled up in one of the sagging armchairs with The Tales of Beedle the Bard. I can’t imagine how much more she can get out of the book, which is not, after all, very long; but evidently she is still deciphering something in it, because Spellman’s Syllabary lays open on the arm of the chair.

  Harry clears his throat. He looks too nervous to me for this suggestion of his to be any good, and I have the feeling that some danger may end up being involved.

  “Hermione, Jamie, I’ve been thinking, and —”

  “Harry, could you help me with something?”

  Apparently Hermione has not been listening to him. She leans forward and holds out The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

  “Look at that symbol,” she says, pointing to the top of a page. Above what I assumed is the title of the story (being unable to read runes, I cannot be sure), there is a picture of what looks like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.

  “I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione.” Harry says.

  “It doesn’t look familiar from what I could tell when looking over Luka and Ariana’s shoulders.” I add, coming up blank on an answer for her.

  “I know that, but it isn’t a rune and it’s not in the syllabary, either. All along I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don’t think it is! It’s been inked in, look, somebody’s drawn it there it isn’t really part of the book. Think, have you ever seen it before?”

  “No . . . No, wait a moment.” Harry looks closer. “Isn’t it the same symbol Luna’s dad was wearing round his neck?”

  “Well, that’s what I thought too!”

  “Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark.” Harry says.

  Hermione stares at him, openmouthed.

  “What?”

  “Krum told me . . .”

  He recounts the story that Viktor Krum told him at the wedding. Hermione looks astonished.

  “Grindelwald’s mark?”

  She looked from Harry to the weird symbol and then to me. “I’ve never heard that Grindelwald had a mark. There’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read about him.”

  “Well, like I said, Krum reckoned that symbol was carved on a wall at Durmstrang, and Grindelwald put it there.”

  She falls back into the old armchair, frowning.

  “That’s very odd. If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic, what’s it doing in a book of children’s stories?”

  “Not all children’s stories are nice Hermione. You’re the one that showed me those terrible ‘fairy tales’ as you called them. I’d hate to see a fairy read those stories.” I say with a shudder.

  “Yeah, it is weird,” says Harry. “And you’d think Scrimgeour would have recognized it. He was Minister, he ought to have been expert on Dark stuff.”

  “I know . . . Perhaps he thought it was an eye, just like I did. All the other stories have little pictures over the titles.”

  She does not speak, but continue to pore over the strange mark. Harry tries again.

  “Guys?”

  “Hmm?” Hermione hums noncommittally.

  “I’ve been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric’s Hollow.”

  She looks up at him, but her eyes are unfocused, and I am sure she is still thinking about the mysterious mark on the book.

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’ve been wondering that too. I really think we’ll have to.”

  “Did you hear me right?” he asks.

  “Of course I did. You want to go to Godric’s Hollow. I agree, I think we should. I mean, I can’t think of anywhere else it could be either. It’ll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it’s there.”

  “Er — what’s there?” asks Harry.

  At that, she looks just as bewildered as Harry.

  “Well, the sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have known you’d want to go back there, and I mean, Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace —”

  “Really? Gryffindor came from Godric’s Hollow?” Harry asks.

  “Seriously Harry! Did you not open your History of Magic textbook ever?” I ask with a fond chuckle.

  “Erm,” he says, smiling a little awkwardly. “I might’ve opened it, you know, when I bought it . . . just the once . . .”

  “Well, as the village is named after him I’d have thought you might have made the connection,” says Hermione. She sounds much more like her old self than she has of late; I half expect her to announce that she is off to the library. “There’s a bit about the village in A History of Magic, wait . . .”

  She opens the beaded bag and rummages for a while, finally extracting her copy of our old school textbook, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, which she thumbs through until finding the page she wants.

  “‘Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric’s Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.”

  “You and your parents aren’t mentioned,” Hermione says, closing the book, “because Professor Bagshot doesn’t cover anything later than the end of the nineteenth century. But you see? Godric’s Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor’s sword; don’t you think Dumbledore would have expected you to make the connection?”

  “Oh yeah . . .” Harry says looking distracted still.

  “It would also be nice to pay our respects to your mum and dad as well don’t you think?” I say trying to get him back with us, and Hermione hurriedly nods her head along in agreement.

  “Yeah.” Harry says still sounding a little distracted, but better than before.

  “Remember what Muriel said?” Harry asks eventually.

  “Who?” Hermione questions.

  “You know,” he hesitates, “Ginny’s great-aunt at the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles.”

  “Oh,” says Hermione. It is a sticky moment: I know that she sensed Ron’s name in the offing. Harry rushes on:

  “She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric’s Hollow.”

  “Bathilda Bagshot,” murmurs Hermione, running her index finger over Bathilda’s embossed name on the front cover of A History of Magic. “Well, I suppose —”

  “You could maybe meet one of the authors of you favorite textbooks.” I say nudging Hermione slightly trying to draw the happy excited air into our lives again.

   “Harry, Jamie, what if Bathilda’s got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?” Hermione asks so suddenly, that I’m lodged off of my place on the arm of Hermione’s chair in shock from the loud utterance. After a few seconds of thinking it over Harry nods his head slowly in agreement.

  “Yeah, he might have done! So, are we going to go to Godric’s Hollow?”

  “Yes, but we’ll have to think it through carefully, Harry.” She is sitting up now, and I can tell that the prospect of having a plan again has lifted her mood as much as mine. “We’ll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we’ll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we’d better do that, Harry, Jamie, the thicker our disguises the better . . .”

  I smile at the renewed sense of purpose that my friends have gotten, and return to the table to finish my newest letter to Ariana, now filling her in on the exciting new plan that we’re about to embark on, and how I wish that she and the rest of my family were here to experience it with us.

  Harry would gladly have had us set out for Godric’s Hollow the following day, but Hermione has other ideas. Convinced as she is that Voldemort will expect Harry to return to the scene of his parents’ deaths, she is determined that we will set off only after we have ensured that we have the best disguises possible. It is therefore a full week later — once we have surreptitiously obtained hairs from innocent Muggles who are Christmas shopping, and have practiced Apparating and Disapparating while underneath the Invisibility Cloak together (not an easy take let me tell you) — that Hermione agrees to allow us to make the journey.

  Even though it isn’t my hometown that we are going to, I feel a ball of excitement growing in my stomach at the adventure. I am actually really curious to see where Harry grew up as a small child.

  We are to Apparate to the village under cover of darkness, so it is late afternoon when we finally swallow Polyjuice Potion, Harry transforming into a balding, middle-aged Muggle man, Hermione into his small and rather mousy wife, and me into their put upon teenager. I won the battle of youth, for I argued that Harry and Hermione were the responsible ones of the group because of my bad temper. The beaded bag containing all of our possessions (apart from the Horcrux, which Harry is wearing around his neck this time) is tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione’s buttoned-up coat. Harry lowers the Invisibility Cloak over us then we turn into the suffocating darkness once again.

  We are standing hand in hand in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night’s first stars are already glimmering feebly when I open my eyes. Cottages stand on either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows.   A short way ahead of us a glow of golden streetlights indicate the center of the village.

  “All this snow!” Hermione whispers beneath the cloak. “Why didn’t we think of snow? After all our precautions, we’ll leave prints! We’ll just have to get rid of them — you go in front, I’ll do it —”

  “Let’s take off the Cloak,” says Harry, and when Hermione looks frightened, “Oh, come on, we don’t look like us and there’s no one around.”

  “We’ve taken a lot of precautions Hermione, we should stay reasonable safe.” I remind her softly. After a nerve wracking moment Hermione slowly nods her head in agreement.

  Harry stows the Cloak under his jacket and we make our way forward unhampered, the icy air stinging our faces as we pass more cottages: Any one of them may have been the one in which James and Lily once lived in or where Bathilda lives now.

  Strung all around with colored lights, there is what looks like a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There are several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained-glass windows are glowing jewel-bright across the square.

  The snow here has become impacted: It is hard and slippery where people have trod on it all day. Villagers are crisscrossing in front of us, their figures briefly illuminated by streetlamps. We hear a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door opens and closes; then we heard a carol start up inside the little church.

  “Jamie, Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” says Hermione.

  “Is it?” Harry asks.

  “How exciting! What great timing.” I say with a wide smile on my face, still trying to get used to the girl’s slightly higher pitch than my own.

 “I’m sure it is,” says Hermione, her eyes upon the church. “They . . . they’ll be in there, won’t they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.”

  Harry looks half excited and afraid, so Hermione and I gently tug him in the direction of the cemetery, knowing that he needs to do this. Halfway across the square, however, we stop dead.

  “Harry, look!” I say in awe.

  I point at the war memorial. As we pass it, it transforms. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there is a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps. I know in a heartbeat that those people are Harry’s parents and he as a baby. The statue is a sad but touching monument.

  “C’mon,” says Harry, when he has looked his fill, and we turn again towards the church. As we cross the road, he glances over his shoulder.

  The singing grows louder as we approach the church. It reminds me of happier times when we were all still blissfully unaware and relatively safe. There is a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Hermione pushes it open as quietly as possible and we edge through it. On either side of the slippery path to the church doors, the snow lays deep and untouched.

  We move off through the snow, carving deep trenches behind us as we walk around the building, keeping to the shadows beneath the brilliant windows.

  Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protrude from a blanket of pale blue that is flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow. Keeping my hand closed tightly on the wand in my jacket pocket, I move toward a grave.

  “Look at this, it’s an Abbott, could be some long-lost relation of Hannah’s!” Harry says sounding shocked

  “Keep your voice down,” Hermione begs him.

  We wade deeper and deeper into the graveyard, gouging dark tracks into the snow behind us, stooping to peer at the words on old headstones, every now and then squinting into the surrounding darkness to make absolutely sure that we are unaccompanied.

  “Harry, Jamie, here!”

  Hermione is two rows of tombstones away; I have to wade back to her, curious as to what she’s found.

  “Is it — ?” Harry asks looking breathless and pale.

  “No, but look!”

  She points to the dark stone. I stoop down and see, upon the frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the words KENDRA DUMBLEDORE and, a short way below her dates of birth and death, AND HER DAUGHTER ARIANA. There is also a quotation:

 

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

 

  So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had got some of their facts right. The Dumbledore family did indeed live here, and part of it died here. I also am now positive how Ariana got her name.

  “Are you sure he never mentioned — ?” Hermione begins looking like she wants to bring up Rita Skeeter’s book.

  “No,” says Harry curtly, then, “let’s keep looking,” and he turns away.

  “Here!” I cry a few moments later from out of the darkness. “Oh no, sorry! I thought it said Potter.”

  I rub at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing down at it, a frown forming on my face.

  “Guys, come back a moment.”

  Harry looks like he really doesn’t want to come and look, but regardless he plods back my way with Hermione by his side.

  “What?” Harry demands.

  “Look at this!” I say excited by my find.

  The grave is extremely old, weathered so that I can hardly make out the name. I show them the symbol beneath it.

  “That’s the mark in the book!”

  They peer at the place I indicate: The stone is so worn that it is hard to make out what is engraved there, though there does seem to be a triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name.

  “Yeah . . . it could be . . .” Harry says.

  Hermione lights her wand and points it at the name on the headstone.

  “It says Ig — Ignotus, I think . . .”

  “I’m going to keep looking for my parents, all right?” Harry tells us, a slight edge to his voice, and he sets off again, leaving us crouched beside the old grave.

  “It was a good find.” Hermione says softly as we rise from our crouched position and begin to search the darkness once again for the Potter graves.

  It takes a few minutes before Hermione and I stumble across it. “Harry… they’re here. Right here.” Hermione says, and after a few moments Harry comes out of the darkness besides us looking nervous.

  The headstone is only two rows behind Kendra and Ariana’s. It is made of white marble, just like Dumbledore’s tomb, and this makes it easy to read, as it seems to shine in the dark. We do not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.

 

JAMES POTTER

BORN 27 MARCH 1960

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

 

LILY POTTER        

BORN 30 JANUARY 1960

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

 

  “‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’ . . .” A horrible thought comes to him, and with it a kind of panic. “Isn’t that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?”

  “It doesn’t mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry,” says Hermione, her voice gentle. “It means . . . you know . . . living beyond death. Living after death.”

  “It’s meant to be a nice thing Harry. Be grateful that it was put on their stone.” I say softly reaching out and giving his hand a squeeze. Harry’s anguish is almost palpable and Hermione and I exchange a look, trying to figure out how to help. With a small nod Hermione raises her wand.

  She moves it in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossoms before us. Harry catches it and lays it on his parents’ grave.

  As soon as he stands up I can tell he wants to leave. Harry puts his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she puts hers around his waist, before grabbing my hand and we turn in silence and walk away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s mother and sister, back towards the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate.

  I think of my own parents and the way that they died. I wonder how they are faring this lonely Christmas Eve. They have two children who don’t visit their grave, and who are now a part of someone else’s family. I know that they would be happy for us now, but I resolve then and there to go and visit their grave if I make it out of this alive, I’ll drag Luka with me as well, and it can be a family affair. A smile lights my face, as well as the warmth along my collarbone.


	13. Bathilda's Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 13- Bathilda’s Secret

 

  “Harry, stop.” Hermione says suddenly, before we’re even out of the graveyard.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask nervous peering around, uncertainly. Graveyards at night are certainly not something that I want to experience again.

  We have only just reached the grave of the unknown Abbott.

  “There’s someone there. Someone is watching us. I can tell. There, over by the bushes.” Hermione says, her voice hitching.

  We stand quite still, holding on to each other, gazing at the dense black boundary of the graveyard. I cannot see anything which only ads to my fear.

  “Are you sure?” Harry asks sounding suspicious.

  “I saw something move, I could have sworn I did . . .” Hermione protests.

  She breaks from us to free her wand arm.

  “We look like Muggles,” Harry points out.

  “Non-scary normal breakfast making Muggles.” I repeat, my hand twitching for my wand.

  “Muggles who’ve just been laying flowers on your parents’ grave! Jamie, Harry, I’m sure there’s someone over there!” Hermione hisses.

  “Maybe its just a ghosts… aren’t graveyards supposed to be haunted— even in Muggle myth?” I ask, a shiver running down my spine. As soon as I posit the question we hear a rustle and see a little eddy of dislodged snow in the bush to which Hermione pointed. Ghosts cannot move snow. “Oh Merlin’s pants.” I gulp tightening my hold on my friends, now prepared to run.

  “It’s a cat,” says Harry, after a second or two, “or a bird. If it was a Death Eater we’d be dead by now. But let’s get out of here, and we can put the Cloak back on.”

  We glance back repeatedly as we make our way out of the graveyard. I tell that we’re all on edge even Harry though he pretends not to be to reassure Hermione and me. I am glad to reach the gate and the slippery pavement. We pull the Invisibility Cloak back over ourselves. The pub is fuller than before: Many voices inside it are now singing the carol that we heard as we approach the church. Its silent for a moment before Hermione murmurs, “Let’s go this way,” and pulls us down the dark street leading out of the village in the opposite direction from which we entered. I can make out the point where the cottages end and the lane turned into open country again. We walk as quickly as we dare, past more windows sparkling with multicolored lights, the outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

  I would give practically anything right now to spend Christmas with my family, but here I am instead on a deadly mission with the Boy Who Lived, to stop the most dangerous dark wizard in the world. I think that I have my priorities straight, I’m just going to have to tell my head that.

  “How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?” asks Hermione, who is shivering a little and keeps glancing back over her shoulder. “Harry? Jamie? What do you think? Harry?”

  She tugs at his arm, but Harry is not paying attention. He is looking towards the dark mass that stands at the very end of this row of houses. I squint my eyes trying to see what he’s seeing. The next moment he speeds up, dragging Hermione and me along with him; Hermione slips a little on the ice, before I straighten her.

  “Harry —” Hermione says worriedly.

  “Look . . . Look at it, Jamie, Hermione. . . .”

  “I don’t . . . oh!” I say a surprised gasp leaving my mouth.

  I can see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James and Lily. The hedge has grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid took Harry from the rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage is still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top floor has been blown apart; that, I am sure, is where the curse backfired. Harry, Hermione, and I stand at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like those that flank it.

  “I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?” whispers Hermione.

  “Maybe you can’t rebuild it?” Harry replies. “Maybe it’s like the injuries from Dark Magic and you can’t repair the damage?”

  “Or maybe it’s out of respect.” I say, remembering once visiting the home where my parents had died. It was old and worn with disuse, but there was still someone who came by to upkeep it, and visitors came daily to see the house of the last Pendragons.

  Harry slips a hand from beneath the Cloak and grasps the snowy and thickly rusted gate.

  “You’re not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it might — oh, Harry, look!” Hermione says.

  His touch on the gate seems to have done it. A sign has risen out of the ground in front of us, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters upon the wood it says:

 

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

 

  And all around these neatly lettered words scribbles have been added by other witches and wizards who have come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others carved their initials into the wood, still others left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti, all say similar things.

 

  Good luck, Harry, wherever you are. If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you!

Long live Harry Potter.

 

  “They shouldn’t have written on the sign!” says Hermione, indignant.

  But Harry beams at us.

  “It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did. I . . .”

  He breaks off. A heavily muffled figure is hobbling up the lane towards us, silhouetted by the bright lights in the distant square. I think, though it is hard to judge, that the figure is a woman. She is moving slowly, possibly frightened of slipping on the snowy ground. Her stoop, her stoutness, and her shuffling gait all give an impression of extreme age. We watch in silence as she draws nearer. We wait to see whether she will turn into any of the cottages she is passing, but I feel that she will not. At last she comes to a halt a few yards from us and simply stands there in the middle of the frozen road, facing us.

  Okay definitely another very creepy thing to happen to us on Christmas no less.

  I did not need Hermione to pinch my arm. There is next to no chance that this woman is a Muggle: She is standing there gazing at a house that ought to have been completely invisible to her, if she is not a witch. Even assuming that she is a witch, however, it is odd behavior to come out on a night this cold, simply to look at an old ruin. By all the rules of normal magic, meanwhile, she ought not to be able to see Hermione, Harry, and me at all. Nevertheless, I have the strangest and worst feeling that she knows that we are there, and also who we are. Just as we reach this uneasy conclusion, she raises a gloved hand and beckons. Oh, please let us not follow creepy old ladies!

  Hermione moves closer to us under the Cloak, her arm presses against mine.

  “How does she know?” Hermione asks.

  “I don’t know but please lets just not follow her.” I say another shiver running down my spine. I’m not scared— not exactly, but following weird unknown people is not something on my to do list.

  Harry shakes his head. The woman beckons again, more vigorously. I shiver again. Its uncanny how she can do that and not natural at all. “I don’t think we should go guys…” I whisper again, now clutching my wand, ready to Apparate us away.

  Finally Harry speaks, causing Hermione to gasp and jump.

  “Are you Bathilda?”

  The muffled figure nods and beckons again.

  Beneath the Cloak Harry, Hermione, and I look at each other. Harry raises his eyebrows; Hermione gives a tiny, nervous nod, and I shake my head vigorously, but am ultimately out voted. I seriously miss Ron about now he probably would have sided with me claiming something about Aunt Muriel and saliva.

  We step towards the woman and, at once, she turns and hobbles off back the way we have come. Leading us past several houses, she turns in at a gate. We follow her up the front path through a garden nearly as overgrown as the one we have just left. She fumbles for a moment with a key at the front door then opens it and steps back to let us pass. I may have let a whimper out— maybe.

  The last time I went into a strangers house was with Dumbledore, this time he’s not here to protect us. Oh how I wish things were so different.

  She smells bad, or perhaps it is her house: I wrinkle my nose as we sidle past her and pull off the Cloak. Now that I am near her, I realize how tiny she is; bowed down with age, she comes a little bit above level with my chest. She closes the door behind us, her knuckles blue and mottled against the peeling paint, then turns and peers into Harry’s face. Her eyes are thick with cataracts and sunken into folds of transparent skin, and her whole face is dotted with broken veins and liver spots. I wonder whether she can make Harry out at all; even if she can, it is the balding Muggle whose identity he has stolen that she will see.

  The odor of old age, of dust, of unwashed clothes and stale food intensifies as she unwinds a moth-eaten black shawl, revealing a head of scant white hair through which the scalp shows clearly.

  “Bathilda?” Harry repeats.

  She nods again

  Bathilda shuffles past us, pushing Hermione aside as though she has not seen her, causing her to bump into me, and vanishes into what seems to be a sitting room.

  “Harry, I’m not sure about this,” breathes Hermione.

  “Thank you, and I totally agree with her.” I say looping my arm through Hermione’s for warmth, since I’m suddenly very cold.

  “Look at the size of her; I think we could overpower her if we had to,” says Harry. “Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn’t all there. Muriel called her ‘gaga.’”

  “Never underestimate someone based one size alone. Have you learned nothing from Dobby?” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

  “Come!” calls Bathilda from the next room.

  Hermione and I jump and she clutches Harry’s arm as well.

  “It’s okay,” says Harry reassuringly, and he leads the way into the sitting room.

  “Oh famous last words.” I mutter under my breath.

  Bathilda is tottering around the place lighting candles, but it is still very dark, not to mention extremely dirty. Thick dust crunches beneath our feet, and my nose detects underneath the dank and mildewed smell, something worse, like meat gone bad. I wonder when is the last time anyone has been inside Bathilda’s house to check whether she is coping. She seems to have forgotten that she can do magic, too, for she lights the candles clumsily by hand, her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of catching fire.

  “Let me do that,” offers Harry, and he takes the matches from her. She stands watching him as he finishes lighting the candle stubs that stand on saucers around the room, perched precariously on stacks of books and on side tables crammed with cracked and moldy cups.

  The last surface on which I spot a candle was a bow-fronted chest of drawers on which there stands a large number of photographs. When the flame dances into life, its reflection wavers on their dusty glass and silver. I see a few tiny movements from the pictures. As Bathilda fumbles with logs for the fire, I watch Harry mutter “Tergeo”: The dust vanishes from the photographs, and we see at once that half a dozen are missing from the largest and most ornate frames. I wonder whether Bathilda or somebody else removed them. Then the sight of a photograph near the back of the collection seems to catch his eye, and he snatches it up.

  The picture is of a golden hair smiling young man.

  “Mrs. — Miss — Bagshot?” Harry says, and his voice shakes slightly. “Who is this?”

  Bathilda is standing in the middle of the room watching Hermione light the fire for her. I am going to just stay rooted to this spot because everything about this room is giving me the creeps. Maybe I just don’t do that well with old people. That must be it…

  “Miss Bagshot?” Harry repeats, and he advances with the picture in his hands as the flames burst into life in the fireplace. Bathilda looks up at his voice.

  “Who is this person?” Harry asks her, pushing the picture forward.

  She peers at it solemnly, then up at Harry.

  “Do you know who this is?” Harry repeats in a much slower and louder voice than usual. “This man? Do you know him? What’s he called?”

  Bathilda merely looks vague. I can tell that Harry is now frustrated, he always is when he can’t get answers, then again so is everyone. How had Rita Skeeter unlocked Bathilda’s memories?

  “Who is this man?” he repeats loudly.

  “Harry, what are you doing?” asks Hermione.

  “This picture, Hermione, it’s the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please!” he says to Bathilda. “Who is this?”

  But she only stares at him.

  “Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. — Miss — Bagshot?” asks Hermione, raising her own voice. “Was there something you wanted to tell us?”

  Giving no sign that she has heard Hermione, Bathilda now shuffles a few steps closer to Harry. With a little jerk of her head she looks back into the hall.

  “You want us to leave?” he asks.

  “It seems that she wants you.” I say uncertainly, slowly moving my hand to my pocket.

  She repeats the gesture, this time pointing firstly at him, then at herself, then at the ceiling.

  “Oh, right . . . Hermione, Jamie, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her.”  Harry says.

  “All right,” says Hermione, “let’s go.”

  But when Hermione and I move, Bathilda shakes her head with surprising vigor, once more pointing first at Harry then to herself.

  “She wants me to go with her, alone.”

  “No Harry.” I say, not liking this one bit.

  “Why?” asks Hermione, and her voice rings out sharp and clear in the candlelit room; the old lady shakes her head a little at the loud noise.

  “Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?” Harry says. I roll my eyes a little at that.

  “Do you really think she knows who you are?” I demand, not sure that this little old woman knows anything anymore.

  “Yes,” says Harry, looking down into the milky eyes fixed upon his own, “I think she does.”

  “Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry.” Hermione says.

  “Lead the way,” Harry tells Bathilda. I watch the two of them leave the room and hear they’re slow creaking ascending up the stairs.

  “I don’t like this at all Hermione. Something is seriously wrong with this place.” I say finally letting another shiver run down my spine.

  “It is rather odd, but she is a senile old lady Jamie, I’m not sure how much harm she can do to Harry.” Hermione says coming over to stand beside me.

  “That’s what everyone says before they wind up seriously injured or dead.” I murmur still off put by this whole ordeal.

  “Try and relax Jamie, we might actually get the sword out of this trip, and we’ll be that much closer to ending this thing.” Hermione says, for once sounding positive in a long time.

  “Maybe…” I say noncommittally, unwilling to believe it will go that easily.

  We’re quiet for a few minutes before a loud crash sounds from upstairs.

  “Harry!” Hermione yells, but I am past waiting for an answer. I knew that something was wrong. My heart is pounding away in my chest faster than my feet on the stairs. I can feel Hermione right behind me on the staircase. On the top of the landing we turn to the right, and one of the most terrible sights meets my eyes.

  Harry is on the ground struggling to break free as Nagini the large serpent of Voldemort, coils its scaly body around him. There is blood dripping from Harry’s arm. Before I realize what I’m doing I fire a curse at the snake, and it reflects, shattering the curtained window.

  Nagini seriously doesn’t like having spells shot at it for it strikes out at Hermione, but I manage to push her out of the way. Unfortunately the fangs of the dreaded beast dig into my hand, and sharp pain comes over me, as my blood starts to pour. At least it wasn’t my left hand with the old scars…

  Suddenly Nagini is thrown off me with a bang, and a garbled scream rips from my throat as it tears open my hand more.

  “Jamie, Hermione, he’s coming! He’s coming!” Harry shouts, and those words manage to penetrate through my fog of pain. Those words that I never wanted to hear again.

  As Harry yells the snake falls, hissing wildly. Everything is chaos: It smashes shelves from the wall, and splintered china flies everywhere and Harry jumps over the bed and seizes the dark shape of Hermione, and then me —

  Hermione shrieks with pain as he pulls her back across the bed, while I merely groan: The snake rears again, but I know that worse than the snake is coming, is perhaps already at the gate.

  The snake lunges as Harry takes a running leap, dragging Hermione and me with him; as it strikes, Hermione screams, “Confringo!” and her spell flies around the room, exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling. Glass cuts my cheek as, Harry pulling Hermione, and me with him, leaps from bed to broken dressing table and then straight out of the smashed window into nothingness, our screams reverberate through the night as we twist in midair . . .

 

* * *

 

 

  When I come to again we’re in yet another forest. I would have thought that the entire misadventure was a dream if not for the stinging agony flaring up in my right hand. I groan lowly and hearing shuffling a few feet away from me, when I look up, I see Hermione hovering a few feet above me.

  “Jamie? Thank Merlin you’re okay! I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to you sooner, but Harry really needed help.” Hermione says, sounding extremely anxious. She leans down, and helps drag me to my feet, and my head spins a little, before my world is all back in place.

  I can see that the tent is set up in front of us. I turn to ask Hermione if she did all this on her own, when I pale to see the blood on her shirt.   
  “Mione…” I trail off, afraid to ask how badly she’s injured.

  “I’m fine, just a few good bruises that will clear up fast. You on the other hand, are going to have to take it easy with that hand for a while.” Hermione says moving us forward into the tent. I glance down at my hand in shock, slightly horrified to see a giant puncture mark in my hand and another one further up my arm a little bit. The hole isn’t clean but jagged as the fang was torn out of my flesh by Harry’s spell.

  “We’ll get that cleaned up, before tending to Harry again.” Hermione says, and I can see the exhaustion clear on her face now.

  “Harry! What happened to Harry?” I cry feebly trying to struggle out of Hermione’s grasp so that I can see to my friend.

  “He’s sick, but stable at the moment. Let’s get you cleaned up before we go and see him.” Hermione says seating me at the table before getting the potion of dittany out of her bag, and a fresh role of bandages. I sit there silently, only letting out a few hisses as Hermione cleans my wounds and wraps my hand and arm.

  “There try not to move it for a while, and you should be fine in a few days.” She says softly, giving me a tired smile. I nod my head almost robotically. I still can’t believe that all that happened. I slowly follow Hermione back to the bunks and see a very pale and sweaty Harry lying on the bottom bunk. He looks like he’s sick and has a fever.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask worriedly. Hermione bites her lip and gives me a look that I know that she hates.

  “I’m not exactly sure.” She admits, and I know that it’s painful for her to admit that in the first place. So thus the two of us take places on the other bunk across from Harry and wait for him to awake. It takes hours and I scrounge up a weak meal of edible roots and plants for dinner along with some tea. Hermione is reluctant to get up in case of Harry being in need, and she is the best spell caster out of the two of us, so I don’t object to the menial chores.

  At this rate, anything to help me take my mind off of everything that just happened mere hours ago. It’s another hour later, when Harry finally begins to stir.

  “No…” Harry cries out from his bunk. Hermione springs to action quickly dropping to her knees beside him.

  “Harry, it’s all right, you’re all right!” She cries trying to wake the boy up.

  “No… I dropped it… I dropped it…”

  “Harry, it’s okay. Wake up, wake up!” I say dropping down beside Hermione, and look at my friend’s tortured face.

  Slowly but surely Harry’s eyes flutter open, and they focus on us.

  “Harry,” Hermione whispers. “Do you feel all — all right?”

  “Yes,” he says, but I can tell by the look on his face that he is lying.

  “We got away.” I say trying to be helpful.

  “Yes,” says Hermione. “I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk, I couldn’t lift you, and Jamie’s hand needs to heal. You’ve been . . . Well, you haven’t been quite . . .”

  There are purple shadows under her brown eyes and a small sponge in her hand: She has been wiping his face.

  “You’ve been ill,” she finishes. “Quite ill.”

  “How long ago did we leave?” Harry asks.

  “Hours ago. It’s nearly morning.” I say, happy that I can relay at least something.

  “And I’ve been . . . what, unconscious?” Harry questions.

  “Not exactly,” says Hermione uncomfortably. “You’ve been shouting and moaning and . . . things,” she adds uneasily.

  “I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you,” Hermione says, and I know she wants to change the subject. “It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark; I’m sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it . . .”

  Harry pulls the sweaty T-shirt he is wearing away from himself and looks down.

  “Where’ve you put the Horcrux?” Harry asks after a moment. I shiver at the thought of that evil locket.

  “In Hermione’s bag. I think we should keep it off for a while.” I say, explaining quickly.

  Harry lays back on his pillows and looks into Hermione’s pinched gray face, then at me.

  “We shouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault Jamie, Hermione, I’m sorry.” Harry apologizes.

  “It’s fine Harry.” I say, forgiving my friend for whatever wrong he thought he did. We all agreed to go after all.

  “It’s not your fault. We wanted to go too; I really thought Dumbledore might have left the sword there for you.” Hermione says, echoing my thoughts.

  “Yeah, well . . . we got that wrong, didn’t we?” Harry says sounding dour.

  “What happened, Harry? What happened when she took you upstairs? Was the snake hiding somewhere? Did it just come out and kill her and attack you?” I ask, wanting to know what really happened upstairs.

  “No,” Harry says. “She was the snake . . . or the snake was her . . . all along.”

  “W-what?” Hermione squeaks. I feel a wave of nausea roll over me.

  “Bathilda must’ve been dead a while. The snake was . . . was inside her. You-Know-Who put it there in Godric’s Hollow, to wait. You were right. He knew I’d go back.” Harry admits.

  “The snake was inside her?” Hermione manages to get out. I glance at Hermione to see that she looks just as revolted and nauseous as I feel.

  “Lupin said there would be magic we’d never imagined,” Harry says. “She didn’t want to talk in front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all Parseltongue, and I didn’t realize, but of course I could understand her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there . . . and then . . .”

  “. . . she changed, changed into the snake, and attacked.” Harry says. He looks down at the puncture marks on his arm, and glances at my bandages. No words needed to be exchanged.

  “It wasn’t supposed to kill me, just keep me there till You-Know-Who came.” Harry explains, and a shiver runs down my spine. Even if it wasn’t supposed to kill, we all nearly died today in a trap left by Voldemort.

  Harry suddenly throws back his covers.

 “Harry, no, I’m sure you ought to rest!” Hermione cries, trying to push him back down into bed.

  “You’re the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look terrible. I’m fine. I’ll keep watch for a while. Where’s my wand?” Harry says looking around for it. I share a grim look with Hermione at this.

  “Where’s my wand, Hermione? Jamie?”

  Hermione is biting her lip, tears swimming in her eyes. I shift nervously on my feet.

  “Harry . . .” Hermione starts.

  “Where’s my wand?” Harry demands.

  I reach down beside the bed and hold it out to him.

  The holly and phoenix wand is nearly severed in two. One fragile strand of phoenix feather keeps both pieces hanging together. The wood has splintered apart completely. Harry takes it into his hands as though it is a living thing that has suffered a terrible injury.

  After a moment of anguish, Harry holds the wand out to Hermione.

  “Mend it. Please.” Harry begs.

  “Harry, I don’t think, when it’s broken like this —” I start.

  “Please, Hermione, try!” Harry says, ignoring me and focusing on Hermione.

  “R-Reparo.” Hermione casts.

  The dangling half of the wand reseals itself. Harry holds it up.

  “Lumos!”

  The wand sparks feebly then goes out. Harry points it at Hermione.

  “Expelliarmus!”

  Hermione’s wand gives a little jerk, but does not leave her hand. The feeble attempt at magic is too much for Harry’s wand, which splits into two again.

  All you need to do is look at Harry’s face to see how badly he feels about this. I don’t know what I would do if my wand were to break like that, especially at a time like this.

  “Harry,” Hermione whispers so quietly I can hardly hear her. “I’m so, so sorry. I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have — must have hit —”

  “It was an accident,” says Harry mechanically. “We’ll — we’ll find a way to repair it.”

  “Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to,” says Hermione, the tears trickling down her face. “Remember . . . remember Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, he had to get a new one.”

  I can see the look of realization and defeat fall onto Harry’s face as he remembers this.

  “Well,” Harry says, in a falsely matter-of-fact voice, “well, I’ll just borrow one of yours for now, then. While I keep watch.”

  Her face glazed with tears, Hermione hands over her wand, and he leaves us there as he strides outside. Hermione finally bursts into tears, and I’m torn between whom to comfort. If Ron was here it would be far easier to do. So instead of going outside to talk to an unresponsive Harry, I sink down next to Hermione and hold her through her tears, and murmur soft assurances to her, that everything will work itself out and be fine. If only I actually believed it this time. Not even the flare of hear from my necklace is enough to reassure me this time.

* * *

 

  Hermione wasn’t one to sit around and do nothing while her friend might possibly hate her. She had me help her in preparing three cups of tea, so that the three of us could sit outside together. I wasn’t sure if it was the smartest thing, but Hermione said that she had something that she wanted to give to Harry so I agreed to this plan.

  “Harry?” Hermione asks tremulously as we come outside.

  Hermione looks frightened that Harry may curse her with her own wand. Her face streaked with tears, she crouches down beside him, two cups of tea trembling in her hands and something bulky under her arm. I sit down on Harry’s other side with my own cup.

  “Thanks,” Harry says, taking one of the cups.

  “Do you mind if I talk to you?” Hermione asks, sounding like a frightening child.

  “No,” Harry says. He looks like he doesn’t want to talk though.

  “Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the picture was. Well . . . I’ve got the book.”

  Timidly Hermione pushes it onto his lap, a pristine copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

  “Where — how — ?” Harry asks slightly stunned.

  “It was in Bathilda’s sitting room, just lying there . . . This note was sticking out of the top of it.”

  Hermione reads the few lines of spiky, acid-green writing aloud.

 

“‘Dear Batty, Thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don’t remember it. Rita.’ I think it must have arrived while the real Bathilda was alive, but perhaps she wasn’t in any fit state to read it?” Hermione says.

  “No, she probably wasn’t.” I agree, feeling a small bubbling of anger at Rita Skeeter for manipulating an old senile woman.

  “You’re still really angry at me, aren’t you?” says Hermione; Harry looks up to see fresh tears leaking out of her eyes.

  “No,” Harry says quietly. “No, Hermione, I know it was an accident. You were trying to get us out of there alive, and you were incredible. I’d be dead if you hadn’t been there to help me.”

  He tries to return her watery smile then turns his attention to the book. Its spine is stiff; it has clearly never been opened before. He riffles through the pages, looking for photographs.

  He stops on a photograph fairly quickly. There’s a young Dumbledore and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter at some long-forgotten joke. I drop my eyes to the caption.

  Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death, with his friend Gellert Grindelwald.

  Okay I was not expecting that one. Grindelwald. His friend was Grindelwald. I look sideways at Harry and Hermione who are still contemplating the name as though she could not believe her eyes. Slowly she looks up at Harry and me.

  “Grindelwald?”

  “It can’t be.” I say shaking my head in disbelief.

  Together the three of us start reading a chapter titled ‘The Greater Good’:

 

  Now approaching his eighteenth birthday, Dumbledore left Hogwarts in a blaze of glory — Head Boy, Prefect, Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, Gold Medal-Winner for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo. Dumbledore intended, next, to take a Grand Tour with Elphias “Dogbreath” Doge, the dim-witted but devoted sidekick he had picked up at school.

  The two young men were staying at the Leaky Cauldron in London, preparing to depart for Greece the following morning, when an owl arrived bearing news of Dumbledore’s mother’s death. “Dogbreath” Doge, who refused to be interviewed for this book, has given the public his own sentimental version of what happened next. He represents Kendra’s death as a tragic blow, and Dumbledore’s decision to give up his expedition as an act of noble self-sacrifice.

  Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric’s Hollow at once, supposedly to “care” for his younger brother and sister. But how much care did he actually give them?

  “He were a head case, that Aberforth,” says Enid Smeek, whose family lived on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow at that time. “Ran wild. ’Course, with his mum and dad gone you’d have felt sorry for him, only he kept chucking goat dung at my head. I don’t think Albus was fussed about him, I never saw them together, anyway.”

  So what was Albus doing, if not comforting his wild young brother? The answer, it seems, is ensuring the continued imprisonment of his sister. For, though her first jailer had died, there was no change in the pitiful condition of Ariana Dumbledore. Her very existence continued to be known only to those few outsiders who, like “Dogbreath” Doge, could be counted upon to believe in the story of her “ill health.”

  Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was Bathilda Bagshot, the celebrated magical historian who has lived in Godric’s Hollow for many years. Kendra, of course, had rebuffed Bathilda when she first attempted to welcome the family to the village. Several years later, however, the author sent an owl to Albus at Hogwarts, having been favorably impressed by his paper on trans-species transformation in Transfiguration Today. This initial contact led to acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family. At the time of Kendra’s death, Bathilda was the only person in Godric’s Hollow who was on speaking terms with Dumbledore’s mother.

  Unfortunately, the brilliance that Bathilda exhibited earlier in her life has now dimmed. “The fire’s lit, but the cauldron’s empty,” as Ivor Dillonsby put it to me, or, in Enid Smeek’s slightly earthier phrase, “She’s nutty as squirrel poo.” Nevertheless, a combination of tried-and-tested reporting techniques enabled me to extract enough nuggets of hard fact to string together the whole scandalous story.

  Like the rest of the Wizarding world, Bathilda puts Kendra’s premature death down to a backfiring charm, a story repeated by Albus and Aberforth in later years. Bathilda also parrots the family line on Ariana, calling her “frail” and “delicate.” On one subject, however, Bathilda is well worth the effort I put into procuring Veritaserum, for she, and she alone, knows the full story of the best-kept secret of Albus Dumbledore’s life. Now revealed for the first time, it calls into question everything that his admirers believed of Dumbledore: his supposed hatred of the Dark Arts, his opposition to the oppression of Muggles, even his devotion to his own family.

  The very same summer that Dumbledore went home to Godric’s Hollow, now an orphan and head of the family, Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into her home her great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald.

  The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: In a list of Most Dangerous Dark Wizards of All Time, he would miss out on the top spot only because You-Know-Who arrived, a generation later, to steal his crown. As Grindelwald never extended his campaign of terror to Britain, however, the details of his rise to power are not widely known here. Educated at Durmstrang, a school famous even then for its unfortunate tolerance of the Dark Arts, Grindelwald showed himself quite as precociously brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his abilities into the attainment of awards and prizes, however, Gellert Grindelwald devoted himself to other pursuits. At sixteen years old, even Durmstrang felt it could no longer turn a blind eye to the twisted experiments of Gellert Grindelwald, and he was expelled.

  Hitherto, all that has been known of Grindelwald’s next movements is that he “traveled abroad for some months.” It can now be revealed that Grindelwald chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric’s Hollow, and that there, intensely shocking though it will be for many to hear it, he struck up a close friendship with none other than Albus Dumbledore.

  “He seemed a charming boy to me,” babbles Bathilda, “whatever he became later. Naturally I introduced him to poor Albus, who was missing the company of lads his own age. The boys took to each other at once.”

  They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter, kept by her that Albus Dumbledore sent Gellert Grindelwald in the dead of night.

  “Yes, even after they’d spent all day in discussion — both such brilliant young boys, they got on like a cauldron on fire — I’d sometimes hear an owl tapping at Gellert’s bedroom window, delivering a letter from Albus! An idea would have struck him, and he had to let Gellert know immediately!”

  And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking though Albus Dumbledore’s fans will find it, here are the thoughts of their seventeen-year-old hero, as relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original letter may be seen on page 463.)

 

Gellert —

Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES’ OWN GOOD — this, I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point it will be the foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.)

Albus

 

  Astonished and appalled though his many admirers will be, this letter constitutes proof that Albus Dumbledore once dreamed of overthrowing the Statute of Secrecy and establishing Wizard rule over Muggles. What a blow for those who have always portrayed Dumbledore as the Muggle-borns’ greatest champion! How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights seem in the light of this damning new evidence!     How despicable does Albus Dumbledore appear, busy plotting his rise to power when he should have been mourning his mother and caring for his sister!

No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on his crumbling pedestal will bleat that he did not, after all, put his plans into action, that he must have suffered a change of heart, that he came to his senses. However, the truth seems altogether more shocking.

  No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on his crumbling pedestal will bleat that he did not, after all, put his plans into action, that he must have suffered a change of heart, that he came to his senses. However, the truth seems altogether more shocking.

  Barely two months into their great new friendship, Dumbledore and Grindelwald parted, never to see each other again until they met for their legendary duel (for more, see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt rupture? Had Dumbledore come to his senses? Had he told Grindelwald he wanted no more part in his plans? Alas, no.

  “It was poor little Ariana dying, I think, that did it,” says Bathilda. “It came as an awful shock. Gellert was there in the house when it happened, and he came back to my house all of a dither, told me he wanted to go home the next day. Terribly distressed, you know. So I arranged a Portkey and that was the last I saw of him.

  “Albus was beside himself at Ariana’s death. It was so dreadful for those two brothers. They had lost everybody except each other. No wonder tempers ran a little high. Aberforth blamed Albus, you know, as people will under these dreadful circumstances. But Aberforth always talked a little madly, poor boy. All the same, breaking Albus’s nose at the funeral was not decent. It would have destroyed Kendra to see her sons fighting like that, across her daughter’s body. A shame Gellert could not have stayed for the funeral . . . He would have been a comfort to Albus, at least. . . .”

  This dreadful coffin-side brawl, known only to those few who attended Ariana Dumbledore’s funeral, raises several questions. Why exactly did Aberforth Dumbledore blame Albus for his sister’s death? Was it, as “Batty” pretends, a mere effusion of grief? Or could there have been some more concrete reason for his fury? Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for near-fatal attacks upon fellow students, fled the country hours after the girl’s death, and Albus (out of shame or fear?) never saw him again, not until forced to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world. 

  Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever seems to have referred to this brief boyhood friendship in later life. However, there can be no doubt that Dumbledore delayed, for some five years of turmoil, fatalities, and disappearances, his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald. Was it lingering affection for the man or fear of exposure as his once best friend that caused Dumbledore to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that Dumbledore set out to capture the man he was once so delighted he had met?

  And how did the mysterious Ariana, the namesake for Dumbeldore’s granddaughter die? Was she the inadvertent victim of some Dark rite? Did she stumble across something she ought not to have done, as the two young men sat practicing for their attempt at glory and domination? Is it possible that Ariana Dumbledore was the first person to die “for the greater good”?

 

  The first thing in my mind after reading this chapter is worry for the alive Ariana Dumbledore. I grasp my necklace in worry, and concentrate on focusing thoughts of care to her.

  Harry is done reading and Hermione has reached the bottom of the page before him. She tugs the book out of Harry’s hands, looking a little alarmed by his expression, and closes it without looking at it, as though hiding something indecent.

  “Harry —” Hermione starts, but there is nothing really to say.

  “Harry.” She finally seems to know what to say. “Listen to me. It — it doesn’t make very nice reading —”

  “Yeah, you could say that —” Harry grumbles.

  “— but don’t forget, Harry, this is Rita Skeeter writing.” I say quickly, deciding right there to not believe everything that I had just read.

  “You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn’t you?” Harry says, raising his eyebrow at us in disbelief.

  “Yes, I — I did.” Hermione hesitates, looking upset, cradling her tea in her cold hands. “I think that’s the worst bit. I know Bathilda thought it was all just talk, but ‘For the Greater Good’ became Grindelwald’s slogan, his justification for all the atrocities he committed later. And . . . from that . . . it looks like Dumbledore gave him the idea. They say ‘For the Greater Good’ was even carved over the entrance to Nurmengard.”

  “What’s Nurmengard?” Harry asks, and I rack my brain for the answer, for it sounds really familiar.

  “The prison Grindelwald had built to hold his opponents. He ended up in there himself, once Dumbledore had caught him. Anyway, it’s — it’s an awful thought that Dumbledore’s ideas helped Grindelwald rise to power. But on the other hand, even Rita can’t pretend that they knew each other for more than a few months one summer when they were both really young, and —” Hermione says, but is cut off by Harry.

  “I thought you’d say that,” says Harry. He looks really angry, and I can understand why. “I thought you’d say ‘They were young.’ They were the same age as we are now. And here we are, risking our lives to fight the Dark Arts, and there he was, in a huddle with his new best friend, plotting their rise to power over the Muggles.”

  It seems like Harry cannot keep his new anger in check so he jumps up and begins to pace back and forth in front of us.

  “I’m not trying to defend what Dumbledore wrote,” says Hermione. “All that ‘right to rule’ rubbish, it’s ‘Magic Is Might’ all over again. But Harry, his mother had just died, he was stuck alone in the house —”

  “Alone? He wasn’t alone! He had his brother and sister for company, his Squib sister he was keeping locked up —” Harry says.

  “I don’t believe it,” I say. Hermione and I stand up too. “Whatever was wrong with that girl, I don’t think she was a Squib. The Dumbledore we knew would never, ever have allowed —”

  “The Dumbledore we thought we knew didn’t want to conquer Muggles by force!” Harry shouts, his voice echoing across the empty hilltop, and several blackbirds rise into the air, squawking and spiraling against the pearly sky.

  “He changed, Harry, he changed! It’s as simple as that! Maybe he did believe these things when he was seventeen, but the whole of the rest of his life was devoted to fighting the Dark Arts! Dumbledore was the one who stopped Grindelwald, the one who always voted for Muggle protection and Muggle-born rights, who fought You-Know-Who from the start, and who died trying to bring him down!” Hermione cries fighting back against Harry’s anger with just as much force.

  Rita’s book lays on the ground between us, so that the face of Albus Dumbledore smiles dolefully at us all.

  “Harry, I’m sorry, but I think the real reason you’re so angry is that Dumbledore never told you any of this himself.” I say, siding with Hermione on this one, for I grew up with the man, and even though we never talked much, I still knew him well enough.

  “Maybe I am!” Harry bellows, and he flings his arms over his head. “Look what he asked from me, Jamie! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing, trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!”

  His voice cracks with the strain, and we stand looking at each other in the whiteness and the emptiness.

  “He loved you,” Hermione whispers. “I know he loved you.”

  Harry drops his arms.

  “I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in. He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me.”

  Harry picks up Hermione’s wand, which he dropped in the snow, and sits back down in the entrance of the tent.

  “Thanks for the tea. I’ll finish the watch. You guys get back in the warm.” Harry says. Hermione and I glance and him then at each other, before sighing. Harry is done talking. Hermione retreats back into the tent first, and I lean down and give Harry’s shoulder a squeeze before following her back inside. This day has been nothing but disaster. That much I do know.


	14. Where to Go from Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 14- Where to Go from Here

 

  I couldn’t really sleep that night. After everything that happened earlier, my brain was filled to the brim with the horrors that had occurred. I had managed to fall asleep for a little while, but a nightmare woke me up quickly with the image of Nagini tearing its way out of Luka’s body, and attacking Ariana. I was still awake when I heard Hermione get up to relieve Harry of his watch at midnight. I waited until I could hear soft snoring coming from him, before allowing my body to relax again.

  We had all become so close to being killed. It is frightening to think that Voldemort was that close to getting us. That would be it. The end. There would literally be no hope left for people, that snake nose would actually win. I must have been more zoned out than I thought for someone shakes my shoulder, and I jump violently so much so that I fall off the cot and onto the floor with a pained groan.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Harry’s voice is slightly raspy from yelling earlier. I look up at him, and groan as I pull myself up into a standing position.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask wincing as I feel what is sure to later be a bruise pull against the skin of my hip.

  “I’m thinking we should leave here. Want to come tell Hermione with me?” Harry asks. I nod my head, following behind him, as we make our way to the entrance of the tent where Hermione is huddled reading A History of Magic by the light of her wand.

  The snow is falling thickly, and she greets with relief at Harry’s suggestion of packing up early and moving on.

  “We’ll go somewhere more sheltered,” she agrees, shivering as she pulls on a sweatshirt over her pajamas. “I kept thinking I could hear people moving outside. I even thought I saw somebody once or twice.”

  Harry pauses in the act of pulling on a jumper and glances at the silent, motionless Sneakoscope on the table. I bit my lip and glance at the entrance of the tent nervously, as I stop packing my socks.

  “I’m sure I imagined it,” says Hermione, looking nervous. “The snow in the dark, it plays tricks on your eyes . . . But perhaps we ought to Disapparate under the Invisibility Cloak, just in case?”

  Half an hour later, with the tent packed, Harry wearing the Horcrux, Hermione clutching the beaded bag, and we Disapparate. The usual tightness engulfs us; my feet part company with the snowy ground then slam hard onto what feels like frozen earth covered with leaves.

   “Where are we?” I ask, peering around at a fresh mass of trees as Hermione opens the beaded bag and begins tugging out tent poles.

  “The Forest of Dean,” she says. “I came camping here once with my mum and dad.”

  “Looks nice. Seems like a good place to hide and disappear.” I comment, ignoring the foul glare thrown my way. With how little sleep everyone has been getting recently, we’re all on edge.

  Here too snow lays on the trees all around and it is bitterly cold, but we are at least protected from the wind. We spend most of the day inside the tent, huddled for warmth around the useful bright blue flames that Hermione is so adept at producing, and which can be scooped up and carried around in a jar. That afternoon fresh flakes drift down upon us, so that even our sheltered clearing has a fresh dusting of powdery snow.

  That night Harry once again refused Hermione’s and my offer to keep watch, and he shoos us away from the opening of the tent. It was not like I was going to get any sleep anyway, so I might as well have been productive. At least Hermione is able to sleep, I think as I watch her peacefully curled up beneath blankets on one of the cots.

  Sitting at the table in front of the jar of blue fire, giving off light and warmth, I pull out my latest piece of parchment. I date the top out in my slightly untidy scrawl then proceed to write:

 

My Dearest Ariana,

 

  It is another sleepless night for me I’m afraid. After what happened with the attack from Nagini, my mind has been drumming up all sorts of horrible nightmares. You know how prone I am to having them. Do you remember the night… the night we were together before the wedding? I woke from one then as well. Except that time you were beside me, with your arm wrapped protectively around me. Remember that you asked what it was about that I had dreamed? Well it was about leaving you. I had dreamed that I had left, and something horrible had happened to you. I didn’t even have my family to run to for the same horrible thing had happened to them.

  I think of you constantly. I fear that I think of you the most, for you’re the only one that I have a physical connection to still. If it weren’t for this necklace, I would have been driven insane by now. It only makes me feel guiltier though. I hardly think about my mother, my father, my brothers, and my sister. It hurts too much to imagine what could be happening to them. I fear that if I open my mind to the possibility of thinking of them, then I will lose myself to the grief. That is what Ron did, before he banished us. He was only thinking of family.

  Would you have ever thought that there would be a day when I would actually want to be more like Ron, Ari? Yeah, I didn’t think so either, but my brother is loyal to family and that’s an admirable trait. I know that if you were here you would take me into your arms, and tell me that I am just as loyal and noble to family as Ron is, but you aren’t here, and maybe you wouldn’t even say such a thing.

   Harry and Hermione are at a sort of stony impasse. Escaping from Nagini and subsequently his master, Hermione cast a spell that ricocheted everywhere and broke Harry’s wand. He’s devastated by the loss. He’s been using Hermione’s wand on watches, even though I have offered him mine. I think that he feels like he has to use Hermione’s though for she looks close to tears every time Harry has to ask to use a wand.

  Enough about me and my problems! I am not completely ignorant about what’s been going on in that castle Miss Dumbledore. Are you and my siblings insane? You should have never tried to break the sword of Gryffindor out of Snape’s office! You could have gotten yourselves killed for being incredibly stupid!

  Okay now that I’ve had a few minutes to calm myself down, and put out the small fire I started on the corner of this paper (sorry), I have come to realize that I am being unfair and hypocritical, since I am probably on the most dangerous and stupid mission there is right now. Every day that I am out here I potentially put myself in danger, and I did just tell you that we had a fight with a giant snake.

  Don’t worry I’m fine! Or at least I will be, my hand is mostly healed up now, just two very large and very red healing puncture marks are left. Hermione was a complete professional in patching me up. I know that you are probably going to be fuming when you read this, and would like nothing more than to yell at me, but you’re going to have to hold off on that love. I promise that I am doing my best to stick around, and ensure that I will still be here for you to do so. I want

 

  I’m pulled bodily from my small world by the opening of the tent flap along with icy cold air cutting through my already thick clothing. I look up from my letter, and to my shock see not only Harry standing there in the doorway but Ron as well, and he is holding a very familiar sword in his hand.

  “R-Ron?” I ask unsure if my sleep deprivation is finally getting to me, and that I am beginning to see things. For there is no possible way for my brother to actually be here right now, for we have moved so much, and been practically untraceable.

  “Hey Jamie…” Ron says with a small unsure smile. I glance at Harry quickly for reassurance that I am in fact not hallucinating, and after his quick nod, I am up from the table, and launching myself into my brother’s arms, making sure to avoid the pointy blade in his grasp.

  Ron holds onto me just as tightly as I hold onto him, and I ignore the pain of having the metal pommel dig into my back and the fact that I am getting wet from hugging my surprisingly sopping brother. “You’re not allowed to leave again you prat. We need you.” I say, trying to keep the tears that are threatening back.

  “I know.” Is all that he says, but that’s good enough for me. I step back and release my brother, knowing that the person that he really needs to see and talk to is still miraculously asleep on the cot. Though I am not sure how much longer she is going to be peaceful for, because when she wakes up and sees Ron I have a feeling that he’s going to have wished he was still.

  After playing a quick sporting game of rock, paper, scissors, that Harry taught us months ago while we were bored Harry (the loser) went to wake Hermione up. It took a few tries of him calling her name to be successful.

  “Hermione!” Harry practically yells.

  She stirs then sits up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face.

  “What’s wrong? Harry? Jamie? Are you all right?”

  “It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine. I’m great. There’s someone here.” Harry says with a smile.

  “What do you mean? Who — ?”

  She sees Ron, who stands there holding the sword and dripping onto the threadbare carpet. Harry backs into a shadowy corner, slips off Ron’s rucksack, and attempts to blend in with the canvas, and I join him quickly after. We both know how this is going to end.

  Hermione slides out of her bunk and moves like a sleepwalker towards Ron, her eyes upon his pale face. She stops right in front of him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide. Ron gives a weak, hopeful smile and half raises his arms.

  Hermione launches herself forward and starts punching every inch of him that she can reach.

  “Ouch — ow — gerroff! What the — ? Hermione — OW!”

  “You — complete — arse — Ronald — Weasley!”

  She punctuates every word with a blow: Ron backs away, shielding his head as Hermione advances.

  “You — crawl — back — here — after — weeks — and — weeks — oh, where’s my wand?”

  She looks as though ready to wrestle it out of Harry’s hands and I react instinctively. Flicking my own wand out I cast a spell.

  “Protego!” I shout.

  The invisible shield erupts between Ron and Hermione: The force of it knocks her backwards onto the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she leaps up again.

  “Hermione!” says Harry. “Calm —”

  “I will not calm down!” she screams. Never before have I seen her lose control like this; she looks quite demented. “Give me back my wand! Give it back to me!”

  “Hermione, will you please —” I try

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, Jamie Pendragon!” she screeches. “Don’t you dare! Give it back now Harry! And YOU!”

  She is pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It is like a malediction, and I cannot blame Ron for retreating several steps.

  “I came running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back!” Hermione cries.

  “I know,” Ron says, “Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really —”

  “Oh, you’re sorry!”

  She laughs, a high-pitched, out-of-control sound; Ron looks at Harry and me for help, but we merely grimace our helplessness.

  “You come back after weeks — weeks — and you think it’s all going to be all right if you just say sorry?”

  “Well, what else can I say?” Ron shouts, and I am glad that Ron is fighting back.

  “Oh, I don’t know!” yells Hermione with awful sarcasm. “Rack your brains, Ron, that should only take a couple of seconds —”

  “Hermione,” interjects Harry, who seems to consider this a low blow, “he just saved my —”

  “I don’t care!” she screams. “I don’t care what he’s done! Weeks and weeks, we could have been dead for all he knew —”

  “I knew you weren’t dead!” bellows Ron, drowning her voice for the first time, and approaching as close as he can with the Shield Charm between them. “Harry’s all over the Prophet, all over the radio, they’re looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and mental stories, I knew I’d hear straight off if you were dead, you don’t know what it’s been like —”

  “What it’s been like for you?”

  Her voice is now so shrill only bats will be able to hear it soon, but she has reached a level of indignation that renders her temporarily speechless, and Ron seizes his opportunity.

  “I wanted to come back the minute I’d Disapparated, but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers, Hermione, and I couldn’t go anywhere!” Ron says.

  “A gang of what?” asks Harry, as Hermione throws herself down into a chair with her arms and legs crossed so tightly it seems unlikely that she will unravel them for several years. Merlin help the man of a woman scorned.

  “Snatchers,” says Ron. “They’re everywhere — gangs trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggle-borns and blood traitors, there’s a reward from the Ministry for everyone captured. I was on my own and I look like I might be school age; they got really excited, thought I was a Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged to the Ministry.”

  “What did you say to them?” I ask, curious and slightly worried for Ron, even though he is obviously fine now.

  “Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of.” Ron says.

  “And they believed that?” I snort unable to help myself.

  “They weren’t the brightest. One of them was definitely part troll, the smell off him . . .”

  Ron glances at Hermione, clearly hopeful she may soften at this small instance of humor, but her expression remains stony above her tightly knotted limbs.

  “Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or not. It was a bit pathetic to be honest, but there were still five of them and only one of me and they’d taken my wand. Then two of them got into a fight and while the others were distracted I managed to hit the one holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and Disapparated. I didn’t do it so well, Splinched myself again” — Ron holds up his right hand to show two missing fingernails; Hermione raises her eyebrows coldly — “and I came out miles from where you were. By the time I got back to that bit of riverbank where we’d been . . . you’d gone.”

  “Gosh, what a gripping story,” Hermione says in the lofty voice she adopts when wishing to wound. “You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went to Godric’s Hollow and, let’s think, what happened there, Harry, Jamie? Oh yes, You-Know-Who’s snake turned up, it nearly killed both of us, and then You-Know-Who himself arrived and missed us by about a second.”

  “What?” Ron says, gaping from her to Harry then to me, but Hermione ignores him.

  “Imagine losing fingernails, Jamie, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  “Hermione,” says Harry quietly, “Ron just saved my life.”

  She appears not to have heard him.

  “One thing I would like to know, though,” she says, fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over Ron’s head. “How exactly did you find us tonight? That’s important. Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not visited by anyone else we don’t want to see.”

  “Come on Mione.” I interject finally stepping in for Ron. Even though I forgive him, that doesn’t mean that I’m still not a little mad and hurt at what he did.

  Ron glares at her then pulls a small silver object from his jeans pocket.

“This.”

  She has to look at Ron to see what he is showing us.

  “The Deluminator?” she asks, so surprised she forgets to look cold and fierce.

  “It doesn’t just turn the lights on and off,” says Ron. “I don’t know how it works or why it happened then and not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning and I heard . . . I heard you.”

  He is looking at Hermione.

  “You heard me on the radio?” she asks incredulously.

  “No, I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your voice,” he holds up the Deluminator again, “came out of this.”

  “And what exactly did I say?” asks Hermione, her tone somewhere between skepticism and curiosity.

  “My name. ‘Ron.’ And you said . . . something about a wand . . .”

  Hermione turns a fiery shade of scarlet. I remember: It was the first time Ron’s name had been said aloud by any of us since the day he left; Hermione mentioned it when talking about repairing Harry’s wand.

  “So I took it out,” Ron goes on, looking at the Deluminator, “and it didn’t seem different or anything, but I was sure I’d heard you. So I clicked it. And the light went out in my room, but another light appeared right outside the window.”

  Ron raises his empty hand and points in front of him, his eyes focused on something neither Harry, Hermione, or I can see.

  “It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing, and bluish, like that light you get around a Portkey, you know?”

  “Yeah,” say Harry, Hermione, and I together automatically.

  “I knew this was it,” says Ron. “I grabbed my stuff and packed it, then I put on my rucksack and went out into the garden.”

  “The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for me, and when I came out it bobbed along a bit and I followed it behind the shed and then it . . . well, it went inside me.”

  “Sorry?” says Harry.

  “Is that healthy?” I wonder aloud.

  “It sort of floated toward me,” says Ron, illustrating the movement with his free index finger, “right to my chest, and then — it just went straight through. It was here,” he touches a point close to his heart, “I could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me I knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere . . .”

  “We were there,” I say. “We spent two nights there, and the second night Harry kept thinking he could hear someone moving around in the dark and calling out!”

  “Yeah, well, that would’ve been me,” says Ron. “Your protective spells work, anyway, because I couldn’t see you and I couldn’t hear you. I was sure you were around, though, so in the end I got in my sleeping bag and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you’d have to show yourselves when you packed up the tent.”

  “No, actually,” says Hermione. “We’ve been Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak as an extra precaution. And we left really early, because, as Jamie says, we’d heard somebody blundering around.”

  “Well, I stayed on that hill all day,” says Ron. “I kept hoping you’d appear. But when it started to get dark I knew I must have missed you, so I clicked the Deluminator again, the blue light came out and went inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in these woods. I still couldn’t see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in the end — and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously.”

  “You saw the what?” says Hermione sharply.

  “You saw an actual deer? How is this important?” I question beginning to get a headache.

  Harry and Ron explain what had happened, and as the story of the silver doe and the sword in the pool unfolds, Hermione frowns from one to the other of them, concentrating so hard she forgets to keep her limbs locked together.

  “But it must have been a Patronus!” she says. “Couldn’t you see who was casting it? Didn’t you see anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can’t believe this! Then what happened?”

  “Why does all the cool stuff happen to them?” I mutter under my breath, willing to trade the whole Nagini and master experience with Ron for this.

  Ron explained how he watched Harry jump into the pool and had waits for him to resurface; how he realized that something was wrong, dives in, and saves Harry, then returns for the sword. He gets as far as the opening of the locket then hesitates, and Harry cuts in.

  “— and Ron stabbed it with the sword.”

  “And . . . and it went? Just like that?” Hermione whispers.

  “Well, it — it screamed,” says Harry with half a glance at Ron. “Here.”

  He throws the locket into her lap; gingerly she picks it up and examines its punctured windows.

  Deciding that it is at last safe to do so, I remove the Shield Charm with a wave of my wand, and Harry turns to Ron.

  “Did you just say you got away from the Snatchers with a spare wand?” He asks.

  “What?” says Ron, who has been watching Hermione examining the locket. “Oh — oh yeah.”

  He tugs open a buckle on his rucksack and pulls a short, dark wand out of its pocket. “Here. I figured it’s always handy to have a backup.”

  “You were right,” says Harry, holding out his hand. “Mine’s broken.”

  “You’re kidding?” Ron says, but at that moment Hermione gets to her feet, and he looks apprehensive again.

  Hermione puts the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag, then climbs back into her bed and settles down without another word.

  Ron passes Harry the new wand.

  “About the best you could hope for, I think,” murmurs Harry.

  “Yeah,” says Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?”

  “I still haven’t ruled it out,” comes Hermione’s muffled voice from beneath her blankets, but I see Ron smiling slightly as he pulls his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll come around eventually. I did.” I tell Ron, giving him one last hug before going back over to the table, and gathering up my half finished letter, and putting it away in my sack for safe keeping. Then I crawl into my bunk, feeling bone weary for the first time in days.

  I am asleep before my head hits the pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

  I do not expected Hermione’s anger to abate overnight, and am therefore unsurprised that she communicates mainly by dirty looks and pointed silences the next morning. Ron responds by maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse. In fact, when all four of us are together I feel like Harry and I are the only non-mourners at a poorly attended funeral. During those few moments he spent alone with Harry and me, however (collecting water and searching the undergrowth for mushrooms), Ron becomes shamelessly cheery.

  “Someone helped us,” he keeps saying. “Someone sent that doe. Someone’s on our side. One Horcrux down, mate!”

  Bolstered by the destruction of the locket, we set to debating the possible locations of the other Horcruxes, and even though we have discussed the matter so often before, I feel optimistic, certain that more breakthroughs will succeed the first. Hermione’s sulkiness cannot mar our buoyant spirits: The sudden upswing in our fortunes, the appearance of the mysterious doe, the recovery of Gryffindor’s sword, and above all, Ron’s return, makes me so happy that it is quite difficult to maintain a straight face.

  Often I am facing the brunt of Hermione’s ire for I am telling her to cheer up, and join in the excitement that we are finally getting somewhere.

  Late in the afternoon Harry, Ron, and I escape Hermione’s baleful presence again, and under the pretense of scouring the bare hedges for nonexistent blackberries, we continued our ongoing exchange of news. Harry and I have finally managed to tell Ron the whole story of our various wanderings, right up to the full story of what happened at Godric’s Hollow; Ron is now filling Harry and me in on everything he discovered about the wider Wizarding world during his weeks away.

  “. . . and how did you find out about the Taboo?” he asks Harry after explaining the many desperate attempts of Muggle-borns to evade the Ministry.

  “The what?” I ask confused.

  “You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-Who’s name!” Ron cries desperately.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, it’s just a bad habit we’ve slipped into,” says Harry. “But I haven’t got a problem calling him V —”

  “NO!” roars Ron, causing Harry to jump into the hedge, me to stumble, and Hermione (nose buried in a book at the tent entrance) to scowl over at us. “Sorry,” says Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, and straightening me “but the name’s been jinxed, Harry, Jamie, that’s how they track people! Using his name breaks protective enchantments, it causes some kind of magical disturbance — it’s how they found us in Tottenham Court Road!”

  “Because we used his name?” I say incredulously. This is becoming ridiculous, and my head begins to swim with the new information. It must be habit by now, but I clutch my necklace to feel its warmth and to ground me again.

  “Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit it makes sense. It was only people who were serious about standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who ever dared use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, anyone who says it is trackable — quick-and-easy way to find Order members! They nearly got Kingsley —”

  “You’re kidding?” I cry, now deathly worried about the man who raised me when I was small.

  “Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill said, but he fought his way out. He’s on the run now, just like us.” Ron scratches his chin thoughtfully with the end of his wand. “You don’t reckon Kingsley could have sent that doe?”

  “His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding, remember?” I say quickly dispelling that thought after years of seeing the big cat.

  “Oh yeah . . .” Ron says deflating.

  We move farther along the hedge, away from the tent and Hermione.

  “Harry . . . you don’t reckon it could’ve been Dumbledore?” Ron asks suddenly. I’m so shocked by the question that I jerk my hand out of the bush so fast that I get scratched by the branches.

  “Dumbledore what?” Harry says sounding bewildered.

  Ron looks a little embarrassed, but says in a low voice, “Dumbledore . . . the doe? I mean,” Ron is watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes, “he had the real sword last, didn’t he?”

  Harry shakes his head.

  “Dumbledore’s dead,” he says. “I saw it happen, I saw the body. He’s definitely gone. Anyway, his Patronus was a phoenix, not a doe.”

  “Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” I say, deciding to play in on the theory, no matter how mental. “Tonks’s changed, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but if Dumbledore was alive, why wouldn’t he show himself? Why wouldn’t he just hand us the sword?” Harry comes back.

  “Search me,” says Ron. “Same reason he didn’t give it to you while he was alive? Same reason he left you an old Snitch and Hermione a book of kids’ stories, and Jamie the history of her family?”

  “Which is what?” asks Harry, turning to look Ron full in the face, desperate for the answer.

  “I dunno,” says Ron. “Sometimes I’ve thought, when I’ve been a bit hacked off, he was having a laugh or — or he just wanted to make it more difficult. But I don’t think so, not anymore. He knew what he was doing when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He — well,” Ron’s ears turn bright red and he becomes engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he prods with his toe, “he must’ve known I’d run out on you.”

  “No,” Harry corrects him. “He must’ve known you’d always want to come back.”

  “I agree, Dumbledore saw the best in people. Not the worst.” I say.

  Ron looked grateful, but still awkward. Partly to change the subject, Harry says,   “Speaking of Dumbledore, have you heard what Skeeter wrote about him?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Ron at once, “people are talking about it quite a lot. ’Course, if things were different, it’d be huge news, Dumbledore being pals with Grindelwald, but now it’s just something to laugh about for people who didn’t like Dumbledore, and a bit of a slap in the face for everyone who thought he was such a good bloke. I don’t know that it’s such a big deal, though. He was really young when they —”

  “Our age,” says Harry, just as he retorted to Hermione, and something in his face seems to decide Ron against pursuing the subject.

  A large spider sits in the middle of a frosted web in the brambles. Harry takes aim at it with the wand Ron gave him the previous night, which Hermione has since condescended to examine, and decided was made of blackthorn.

  “Engorgio.”

  The spider gives a little shiver, bouncing slightly in the web. Harry tries again. This time the spider grows slightly larger.

  “Stop that,” says Ron sharply. “I’m sorry I said Dumbledore was young, okay?”

  Harry seems to have forgot Ron’s hatred of spiders.

  “Sorry — Reducio.”

  The spider does not shrink. Harry looks down at the blackthorn wand. Every minor spell he had cast with it so far that day seems less powerful than those he produced with his phoenix wand.

  “You just need to practice,” says Hermione, who has approached us noiselessly from behind and has stood watching anxiously as Harry tries to enlarge and reduce the spider. “It’s all a matter of confidence, Harry.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get it in no time, you’re almost as good as a spell caster as Hermione.” I say with a smile trying to cheer him up. This seems to have become my official position in the group, moral patrol.

  Harry agrees, but when Ron smiles at Hermione she stalks back off and vanishes behind her book again. I swear the trouble those two are putting me though. Its like they’re trying to punish me for the years of back and forth they went through with Ariana and me. I pale at the thought of them actually doing so.

  All four of us return to the tent when darkness falls, and Harry takes first watch. Sitting in the entrance, he tries to make the blackthorn wand levitate small stones at his feet. Hermione is lying on her bunk reading, while Ron, after many nervous glances up at her, has taken a small wooden wireless out of his rucksack and starts to try and tune it. I am working on the last few lines of my letter to Ariana, very glad to report that things are looking up, before I relieve Harry for next shift.

  “There’s this one program,” Ron tells Harry and me in a low voice, “that tells the news like it really is. All the others are on You-Know-Who’s side and are following the Ministry line, but this one . . . you wait till you hear it, it’s great. Only they can’t do it every night, they have to keep changing locations in case they’re raided, and you need a password to tune in. . . . Trouble is, I missed the last one . . .”

  Ron drums lightly on the top of the radio with his wand, muttering random words under his breath. He throws Hermione many covert glances, plainly fearing an angry outburst, but for all the notice she takes of him he may not be here. For ten minutes or so Ron taps and mutters, Hermione turns the pages of her book, I scribble the last line, and Harry continues to practice with the blackthorn wand.

  Finally Hermione climbs down from her bunk. Ron ceases his tapping at once.

  “If it’s annoying you, I’ll stop!” he tells Hermione nervously.

  Hermione does not deign to respond, but approaches Harry and me since I have now joined him for watch.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  I look at the book still clutched in her hand. It is The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

  “What?” Harry says apprehensively. I know that he doesn’t want to keep hearing arguments about how much of a good person Dumbledore is. Hermione’s answer, however, is completely unexpected.

  “I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood.” She states.

  We stare at her.

  “Sorry?” I say, unsure why she would want to do that.

  “Xenophilius Lovegood, Luna’s father. I want to go and talk to him!” Hermione says again clearly.

  “Er — why?” Harry finally manages to spit out.

  She takes a deep breath, as though bracing herself, and says, “It’s that mark, the mark in Beedle the Bard. Look at this!”

  She thrusts The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore under Harry’s unwilling eyes and we see a photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore wrote Grindelwald, with Dumbledore’s familiar thin, slanting handwriting.

  “The signature,” says Hermione. “Look at the signature, guys!”

  We obey. Looking more closely with the aid of Harry’s lit wand, we see that Dumbledore has replaced the A of Albus with a tiny version of the same triangular mark inscribed upon The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

  “Er — what are you — ?” says Ron tentatively, but Hermione quells him with a look and turns back to Harry and me.

  “It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?” she says. “I know Viktor said it was Grindelwald’s mark, but it was definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow, and the dates on the headstone were long before Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well, we can’t ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means — I don’t even know whether Grindelwald’s still alive — but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the symbol at the wedding. I’m sure this is important, Harry!”

  I can see how this might help us in the long run, but in the end, it is Harry that gets to decide what we do. Harry does not answer immediately. He looks into her intense, eager face and then out into the surrounding darkness, thinking. After a long pause he says, “Hermione, we don’t need another Godric’s Hollow. We talked ourselves into going there, and —”

  “But it keeps appearing, Harry! Dumbledore left me The Tales of Beedle the Bard, how do you know we’re not supposed to find out about the sign?” Hermione argues.

  “Here we go again!” Harry feels slightly exasperated. “We keep trying to convince ourselves Dumbledore left us secret signs and clues —”

  “The Deluminator turned out to be pretty useful,” pipes up Ron. “I think Hermione’s right, I think we ought to go and see Lovegood.”

  Harry throws him a dark look.

  “I think that it could be important Harry.” I say hating the scathing look that he sends my way as well.

  “It won’t be like Godric’s Hollow,” Ron adds, “Lovegood’s on your side Harry, The Quibbler’s been for you all along, it keeps telling everyone they’ve got to help you!”

  “I’m sure this is important!” says Hermione earnestly.

  “But don’t you think if it was, Dumbledore would have told me about it before he died?” Harry counters.

  “Maybe . . . maybe it’s something you need to find out for yourself,” says Hermione with a faint air of clutching at straws.

  “Yeah,” says Ron sycophantically, “that makes sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” snaps Hermione, “but I still think we ought to talk to Mr. Lovegood. A symbol that links Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Godric’s Hollow? Harry, I’m sure we ought to know about this!”

  “Come on Harry.” I say softly trying to gently persuade him, though I am partly terrified about what may happen.

  “I think we should vote on it,” says Ron. “Those in favor of going to see Lovegood —”

  His hand flies into the air before Hermione’s and mine. Hermione’s lips quivered suspiciously as she raises her own.

  “Outvoted, Harry, sorry,” says Ron, clapping him on the back.

  “Fine,” says Harry, looking half amused, half irritated. “Only, once we’ve seen Lovegood, let’s try and look for some more Horcruxes, shall we? Where do the Lovegoods live, anyway? Do either of you know?”

  “Yeah, they’re not far from our place,” says Ron giving me a meaningful look. “I dunno exactly where, but Mum and Dad always point toward the hills whenever they mention them. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  When Hermione returns to her bunk, Harry lowers his voice.

  “You only agreed to try and get back in her good books.” Harry says with a raised eyebrow.

  “All’s fair in love and war,” says Ron brightly, “and this is a bit of both. Cheer up, it’s the Christmas holidays, Luna’ll be home!”

  A smile comes to my face at the thought of possibly seeing one of our old school friends.

  We have an excellent view of the village of Ottery St. Catchpole from the breezy hillside to which we Disapparate next morning. From our high vantage point the village looks like a collection of toy houses in the great slanting shafts of sunlight stretching to earth in the breaks between clouds. We stand for a minute or two looking towards the Burrow, our hands shadowing their eyes, but all we can make out are the high hedges and trees of the orchard, which afford the crooked little house protection from Muggle eyes. A great swell of longing comes up in me to just start running, and not stop until I am back home safe with my family, but that can’t happen. I am not safe anymore.

  “It’s weird, being this near, but not going to visit,” says Ron.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.” I say, my lower lip trembling slightly with want.

  “Well, it’s not like you haven’t just seen them. You were there for Christmas,” says Hermione coldly. I look to Ron to see if this is true or not.

  “I wasn’t at the Burrow!” says Ron with an incredulous laugh. “Do you think I was going to go back there and tell them all I’d walked out on you? Yeah, Fred and George would’ve been great about it. And Ginny, she’d have been really understanding. If they had Ariana over, I’m sure she would have made me tea, and Luka would have gladly shared our room again.”

  “But where have you been, then?” asks Hermione, surprised.

  “Bill and Fleur’s new place. Shell Cottage. Bill’s always been decent to me. He — he wasn’t impressed when he heard what I’d done, but he didn’t go on about it. He knew I was really sorry. None of the rest of the family knew I was there. Bill told Mum he and Fleur weren’t going home for Christmas because they wanted to spend it alone. You know, first holiday after they were married. I don’t think Fleur minded. You know how much she hates Celestina Warbeck.”

  Ron turns his back on the Burrow, and reluctantly I follow his lead.

  “Let’s try up here,” he says, leading the way over the top of the hill.

  We walk for a few hours, Harry, at Hermione’s insistence, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak. The cluster of low hills appear to be uninhabited apart from one small cottage, which seems deserted.

  “Do you think it’s theirs, and they’ve gone away for Christmas?” says Hermione, peering through the window at a neat little kitchen with geraniums on the windowsill. Ron snorts.

  “Listen, I’ve got a feeling you’d be able to tell who lived there if you looked through the Lovegoods’ window. Let’s try the next lot of hills.”

  So we Disapparate a few miles further north.

  “Aha!” shouts Ron, as the wind whipped our hair and clothes. Ron is pointing upward, towards the top of the hill on which we have appeared, where a most strange-looking house rises vertically against the sky, a great black cylinder with a ghostly moon hanging behind it in the afternoon sky. “That’s got to be Luna’s house, who else would live in a place like that? It looks like a giant rook!”

  “It’s nothing like a bird,” says Hermione, frowning at the tower.

  “I was talking about a chess rook,” says Ron. “A castle to you.”

  “Whatever it is it sure is something.” I retort, unable to peel my eyes away from the strange house.

  Ron’s legs are the longest and he reaches the top of the hill first. When Harry, Hermione, and I have caught up with him, panting and clutching stitches in our sides, we find him grinning broadly. I don’t think that I’ve seen Ron this happy before. At least not when foods involved.

  “It’s theirs,” says Ron. “Look.”

  Three hand-painted signs have been tacked to a broken-down gate. The first reads,

 

THE QUIBBLER. EDITOR: X. LOVEGOOD

 

the second,

 

PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE

 

the third,

 

KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS

 

  The gate creaks as we open it. The zigzagging path leading to the front door is overgrown with a variety of odd plants, including a bush covered in the orange radishlike fruit Luna sometimes wears as earrings. I think I recognize a Snargaluff and give the wizened stump a wide berth. Two aged crab apple trees, bent with the wind, stripped of leaves but still heavy with berry-sized red fruits and bushy crowns of white-beaded mistletoe, stand sentinel on either side of the front door. A little owl with a slightly flattened, hawk-like head peers down at us from one of the branches.

  “You’d better take off the Invisibility Cloak, Harry,” says Hermione. “It’s you Mr. Lovegood wants to help, not us.”

  He does as she suggests, handing her the Cloak to stow in the beaded bag. She then raps three times on the thick black door, which is studded with iron nails and bears a knocker shaped like an eagle.

  Barely ten seconds pass, then the door is flung open and there stands Xenophilius Lovegood, barefoot and wearing what appears to be a stained nightshirt. His long white candyfloss hair is dirty and unkempt. Xenophilius was positively dapper at Bill and Fleur’s wedding by comparison.

  “What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?” he cries in a high-pitched, querulous voice, looking first at Hermione, then at Ron, then at me, and finally at Harry, upon which his mouth falls open in a perfect, comical O.

  “Hello, Mr. Lovegood,” says Harry, holding out his hand. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter.”

  Xenophilius does not take Harry’s hand, although the eye that is not pointing inward at his nose slides straight to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

  “Would it be okay if we came in?” asks Harry. “There’s something we’d like to ask you.”

  “I . . . I’m not sure that’s advisable,” whispers Xenophilius. He swallows and casts a quick look around the garden. “Rather a shock . . . My word . . . I . . . I’m afraid I don’t really think I ought to —”

  “It won’t take long,” says Harry, looking slightly disappointed by this less-than-warm welcome.

  “I — oh, all right then. Come in, quickly. Quickly!”

  We are barely over the threshold when Xenophilius slams the door shut behind us. We are standing in the most peculiar kitchen I have ever seen. The room is perfectly circular, so that it feels like being inside a giant pepper pot. Everything is curved to fit the walls — the stove, the sink, and the cupboards — and all of it has been painted with flowers, insects, and birds in bright primary colors. I think I recognize Luna’s style: The effect, in such an enclosed space, is slightly overwhelming. I feel like we’ve stepped into a whole new world.

  In the middle of the floor, a wrought-iron spiral staircase leads to the upper levels. There is a great deal of clattering and banging coming from overhead: I wonder what Luna is doing.

  “You’d better come up,” says Xenophilius, still looking extremely uncomfortable, and he leads the way.

  The room above seems to be a combination of living room and workplace, and as such, is even more cluttered than the kitchen, though much smaller and entirely round. There are piles upon piles of books and papers on every surface. Delicately made models of creatures I do not recognize, all flapping wings or snapping jaws, hang from the ceiling.

  Luna is not here: The thing that is making such a racket is a wooden object covered in magically turning cogs and wheels. It looks like the bizarre offspring of a workbench and a set of old shelves, but after a moment I deduce that it is an old-fashioned printing press, due to the fact that it is churning out Quibblers.

  “Excuse me,” says Xenophilius, and he strides over to the machine, seizes a grubby tablecloth from beneath an immense number of books and papers, which all tumble onto the floor, and throws it over the press, somewhat muffling the loud bangs and clatters. He then faces Harry.

  “Why have you come here?”

  Before Harry can speak, however, Hermione lets out a small cry of shock.

  “Mr. Lovegood — what’s that?”

  She is pointing at an enormous, gray spiral horn, not unlike that of a unicorn, which has been mounted on the wall, protruding several feet into the room.

  “It is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” says Xenophilius.

  “No it isn’t!” says Hermione.

  “Hermione,” mutters Harry, embarrassed, “now’s not the moment —”

  “But Harry, it’s an Erumpent horn! It’s a Class B Tradeable Material and it’s an extraordinarily dangerous thing to have in a house!”

  “How d’you know it’s an Erumpent horn?” asks Ron, edging away from the horn as fast as he can, given the extreme clutter of the room. I have nothing to say for my mind is still trying to wrap itself around everything that it’s seeing. There’s just too much to take it.

  “There’s a description in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them! Mr. Lovegood, you need to get rid of it straightaway, don’t you know it can explode at the slightest touch?” Hermione cries.

  “The Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” says Xenophilius very clearly, a mulish look upon his face, “is a shy and highly magical creature, and its horn —”

  “Mr. Lovegood, I recognize the grooved markings around the base, that’s an Erumpent horn and it’s incredibly dangerous — I don’t know where you got it —”

  “I bought it,” says Xenophilius dogmatically, “two weeks ago, from a delightful young wizard who knew of my interest in the exquisite Snorkack. A Christmas surprise for my Luna. Now,” he says, turning to Harry, “why exactly have you come here, Mr. Potter?”

  “We need some help,” says Harry, before Hermione can start again.

  “Ah,” says Xenophilius. “Help. Hmm.”

  His good eye moves again to Harry’s scar. He seems simultaneously terrified and mesmerized.

  “Yes. The thing is . . . helping Harry Potter . . . rather dangerous . . .”

  “Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s their first duty to help Harry?” says Ron. “In that magazine of yours?”

  Xenophilius glances behind him at the concealed printing press, still banging and clattering beneath the tablecloth.

  “Er — yes, I have expressed that view. However —”

  “That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?” I say my expression darkening. I hate people who will say one thing but then do another. Hermione quickly makes her way over to me and grabs my hand.

  “You are not going to be set off in this house. With that horn and your unpredictable anger, we’ll all be blown sky high before anyone can even think to come here.” Hermione whispers into my ear. She pulls away from me, but doesn’t let go of my hand, so that I can try and keep myself calm. The flaring of heat from my necklace helps as well.

  Xenophilius does not answer. He keeps swallowing, his eyes darting between the four of us. I have the impression that he is undergoing some painful internal struggle.

  “Where’s Luna?” asks Hermione. “Let’s see what she thinks.”

  Xenophilius gulps. He seems to be steeling himself. Finally he says in a shaky voice difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She . . . she will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then — yes, very well. I shall try to help you.”

  He disappears down the spiral staircase and we hear the front door open and close.   We look at each other.

  “Cowardly old wart,” says Ron. “Luna’s got ten times his guts.”

  “He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them if the Death Eaters find out I was here,” says Harry.

  “Well, I agree with Ron,” says Hermione. “Awful old hypocrite, telling everyone else to help you and trying to worm out of it himself. And for heaven’s sake keep away from that horn.”

  “Believe me, I am ready to be out of here, the sooner the better.” I mutter trying to keep myself as far away from any objects that look dangerous, while still being attached to Hermione.

  My gaze falls upon another peculiar object standing upon the cluttered, curved sideboard: a stone bust of a beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects that resemble golden ear trumpets curve out from the sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wings is stuck to a leather strap that runs over the top of her head, while one of the orange radishes have been stuck to a second strap around her forehead.

  “Look at this,” says Harry gesturing to the bust I’m looking at.

  “Fetching,” says Ron. “Surprised he didn’t wear that to the wedding.”

  We hear the front door close, and a moment later Xenophilius has climbed back up the spiral staircase into the room, his thin legs now encased in Wellington boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted teacups and a steaming teapot.

  “Ah, you have spotted my pet invention,” he says, shoving the tray into Hermione’s arms, which I help her balance and joining Harry at the statue’s side. “Modeled, fittingly enough, upon the head of the beautiful Rowena Ravenclaw. ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure!’”

  He indicates the objects like ear trumpets.

  “These are the Wrackspurt siphons — to remove all sources of distraction from the thinker’s immediate area. Here,” he points out the tiny wings, “a billywig propeller, to induce an elevated frame of mind. Finally,” he points to the orange radish, “the Dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability to accept the extraordinary.”

  Xenophilius strides back to the tea tray, which Hermione and I have managed to balance precariously on one of the cluttered side tables.

  “May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?” says Xenophilius. “We make it ourselves.” As he starts to pour out the drink, which is as deeply purple as beetroot juice, he adds, “Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here. She ought not to be too long she has caught nearly enough Plimpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down and help yourselves to sugar.”

  “Now,” he removes a tottering pile of papers from an armchair and sits down, his Wellingtoned legs crossed, “how may I help you, Mr. Potter?”

  “Well,” says Harry, glancing at Hermione, who nods encouragingly, “it’s about that symbol you were wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant.”

  Xenophilius raises his eyebrows.

  “Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?”

  What on earth is the Deathly Hallows. Merlin, this sounds like something that is going to be incredibly dangerous or seriously helpful.


	15. The Tale of the Three Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 15- The Tale of the Three Brothers

 

  Harry turns to look at Ron, Hermione, and me. I am a hundred percent certain that all of us have no idea what the man is talking about.

  “The Deathly Hallows?” I repeat, still unsure if I like the sound of that or not.

  “That’s right,” says Xenophilius. “You haven’t heard of them? I’m not surprised. Very, very few wizards believe. Witness that knuckleheaded young man at your brother’s wedding,” he nods at Ron, “who attacked me for sporting the symbol of a well-known Dark wizard! Such ignorance. There is nothing Dark about the Hallows — at least, not in that crude sense. One simply uses the symbol to reveal oneself to other believers, in the hope that they might help one with the Quest.”

  He stirs several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot infusion and drinks some.

  “I’m sorry,” says Harry. “I still don’t really understand.”                                             

  To be polite, I take a sip from my cup too, and almost gag: The stuff is quite disgusting, as though someone has liquidized bogey-flavored Every Flavor Beans, then strained them through a smelly sock.

  “Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows,” says Xenophilius, smacking his lips in apparent appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion.

  “But what are the Deathly Hallows?” asks Hermione.

  Xenophilius sets aside his empty teacup.

  “I assume that you are all familiar with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’?”

Harry says, “No,” but Ron, Hermione, and I say, “Yes.” Xenophilius nods gravely.

  “Well, well, Mr. Potter, the whole thing starts with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ . . . I have a copy somewhere . . .”

  He glances vaguely around the room, at the piles of parchment and books, but Hermione says, “I’ve got a copy, Mr. Lovegood, I’ve got it right here.”

  And she pulls out The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the small, beaded bag.

  “The original?” inquires Xenophilius sharply, and when she nods, he says, “Well then, why don’t you read it aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all understand.”

  “Er . . . all right,” says Hermione nervously. She opens the book, and I see that the symbol we are investigating heads the top of the page as she gives a little cough, and begins to read.

  “‘There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight —’”

  “Midnight, our mum always told us,” says Ron, who has stretched out, arms behind his head, to listen. Hermione shoots him a look of annoyance.

  “Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!” says Ron.

  “Just let her read you prat.” I grumble kicking him in the foot. I can still remember Kingsley reading us these stories when we were little in his deep low voice.

  “Yeah, because we really need a bit more fear in our lives,” says Harry before he can stop himself. Xenophilius does not seem to be paying much attention, but is staring out of the window at the sky. “Go on, Hermione.”

  “‘In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure.

  “‘And Death spoke to them —’”

  “Sorry,” interjects Harry, “but Death spoke to them?”

  “It’s a fairy tale, Harry!” I cry exasperatedly.

  “Right, sorry. Go on.” Harry says abashed.

  “‘And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic, and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.

  “‘So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.”

  “‘Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.

  “‘And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.’”

  “Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry interrupts again.

  “So he can sneak up on people,” says Ron. “Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking . . . sorry, Hermione.”

  “‘Then Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on their way, and they did so, talking with wonder of the adventure they had had, and admiring Death’s gifts.

  “‘In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination.”

  “‘The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally, with the Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible.

  “‘That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed. The thief took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother’s throat.

  “‘And so Death took the first brother for his own.”

  “‘Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry, before her untimely death, appeared at once before him.

  “‘Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as truly to join her.

  “‘And so Death took the second brother for his own.” 

  “‘But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life.’”

  Hermione closes the book. It is a moment or two before Xenophilius seems to realize that she has stopped reading then he withdraws his gaze from the window and says, “Well, there you are.”

  “Sorry?” says Hermione, sounding confused.

  “Those are the Deathly Hallows,” says Xenophilius.

  He picks up a quill from a packed table at his elbow, and pulls a torn piece of parchment from between more books.

  “The Elder Wand,” he says, and he draws a straight vertical line upon the parchment. “The Resurrection Stone,” he says, and he adds a circle on top of the line. “The Cloak of Invisibility,” he finishes, enclosing both line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbol that so intrigued Hermione. “Together,” he says, “the Deathly Hallows.”

  “But there’s no mention of the words ‘Deathly Hallows’ in the story,” says Hermione.

  “Well, of course not,” says Xenophilius, maddeningly smug. “That is a children’s tale, told to amuse rather than to instruct. Those of us who understand these matters, however, recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor master of Death.”

  “Master of Death.” I repeat a shiver running down my spine. I do no like the sound of that at all.

  There is a short silence in which Xenophilius glances out of the window. Already the sun is low in the sky.

  “Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon,” he says quietly.

  “When you say ‘master of Death’ —” says Ron.

  “Master,” says Xenophilius, waving an airy hand. “Conqueror. Vanquisher. Whichever term you prefer.”

  “But then . . . do you mean . . .” says Hermione slowly, and I can tell that she is trying to keep any trace of skepticism out of her voice, “that you believe these objects — these Hallows — actually exist?”

  Xenophilius raises his eyebrows again.

  “Well, of course.”

  “But,” says Hermione, and I can hear her restraint starting to crack, “Mr. Lovegood, how can you possibly believe — ?”

  “Luna has told me all about you, young lady,” says Xenophilius. “You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded.”

  “Perhaps you ought to try on the hat, Hermione,” says Ron, nodding towards the ludicrous headdress. His voice shakes with the strain of not laughing. I cover my mouth with my hand trying to suppress laughter as well. I don’t know how it just got so lighthearted for a second.

  “Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione begins again. “We all know that there are such things as Invisibility Cloaks. They are rare, but they exist. But —”

  “Ah, but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of Invisibility, Miss Granger! I mean to say, it is not a traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm, or carrying a Bedazzling Hex, or else woven from Demiguise hair, which will hide one initially but fade with the years until it turns opaque. We are talking about a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it. How many cloaks have you ever seen like that, Miss Granger?”

  Hermione opens her mouth to answer, then closes it again, looking more confused than ever. She, Harry, Ron, and I glance at one another, and I know that we are all thinking the same thing. It so happens that a cloak exactly like the one Xenophilius just described is in the room with us at this very moment.

  “Exactly,” says Xenophilius, as if he has defeated us all in reasoned argument.   “None of you have ever seen such a thing. The possessor would be immeasurably rich, would he not?”

  He glances out of the window again. The sky is now tinged with the faintest trace of pink.

  “All right,” says Hermione, disconcerted. “Say the Cloak existed . . . what about the stone, Mr. Lovegood? The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?”

  “What of it?”

  “Well, how can that be real?”

  “Prove that it is not,” says Xenophilius.

  Hermione looks outraged.

  “But that’s — I’m sorry, but that’s completely ridiculous! How can I possibly prove it doesn’t exist? Do you expect me to get hold of — of all the pebbles in the world and test them? I mean, you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!”

  “Yes, you could,” says Xenophilius. “I am glad to see that you are opening your mind a little.”

  “So the Elder Wand,” says Harry quickly, before Hermione can retort (her face getting redder by the second), “you think that exists too?”

  “Oh, well, in that case there is endless evidence,” says Xenophilius. “The Elder Wand is the Hallow that is most easily traced, because of the way in which it passes from hand to hand.”

  “Which is what?” I ask getting curious about this as well.

  “Which is that the possessor of the wand must capture it from its previous owner, if he is to be truly master of it,” says Xenophilius. “Surely you have heard of the way the wand came to Egbert the Egregious, after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil? Of how Godelot died in his own cellar after his son, Hereward, took the wand from him? Of the dreadful Loxias, who took the wand from Barnabas Deverill, whom he had killed? The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history.”

  I glance at Hermione. She is frowning at Xenophilius, but she does not contradict him.

  “So where do you think the Elder Wand is now?” asks Ron.

  “Alas, who knows?” says Xenophilius, as he gazes out of the window. “Who knows where the Elder Wand lies hidden? The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius. Who can say which of them really defeated Loxias, and which took the wand? And who can say who may have defeated them? History, alas, does not tell us.”

  There is a pause. Finally Hermione asks stiffly, “Mr. Lovegood, does the Peverell family have anything to do with the Deathly Hallows?”

  Xenophilius looks taken aback as something shifts in my memory. She’s talking about the grave back in Godric’s Hollow.

  “But you have been misleading me, young woman!” says Xenophilius, now sitting up much straighter in his chair and goggling at Hermione. “I thought you were new to the Hallows Quest! Many of us Questers believe that the Peverells have everything — everything! — to do with the Hallows!”

  “Who are the Peverells?” asks Ron.

  “That was the name on the grave with the mark on it, in Godric’s Hollow,” says Hermione, still watching Xenophilius. “Ignotus Peverell.” I nod my head in agreement.

  “Exactly!” says Xenophilius, his forefinger raises pedantically. “The sign of the Deathly Hallows on Ignotus’s grave is conclusive proof!”

  “Of what?” asks Ron.

  “Why, that the three brothers in the story were actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the Hallows!”

  With another glance at the window he gets to his feet, picks up the tray, and heads for the spiral staircase.

  “You will stay for dinner?” he calls, as he vanishes downstairs again. “Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimpy soup.”

  “Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. Mungo’s,” says Ron under his breath.

  “I don’t think I can stand anything after the drink I just had.” I say holding my stomach, which is indeed a fair bit queasy now.

  Harry waits until we can hear Xenophilius moving about in the kitchen downstairs before speaking.

  “What do you think?” he asks Hermione.

  “Oh, Harry,” she says wearily, “It’s a pile of utter rubbish. This can’t be what the sign really means. This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste of time.”

  “I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-Horned Snorkacks,” says Ron.

  “You don’t believe it either?” Harry asks him.

  “Nah, that story’s just one of those things you tell kids to teach them lessons, isn’t it? ‘Don’t go looking for trouble, don’t pick fights, don’t go messing around with stuff that’s best left alone! Just keep your head down, mind your own business, and you’ll be okay.’ Come to think of it,” Ron adds, “maybe that story’s why elder wands are supposed to be unlucky.”

  “What are you talking about?” Harry asks.

  “One of those superstitions, isn’t it? ‘May-born witches will marry Muggles.’ ‘Jinx by twilight, undone by midnight.’ ‘Wand of elder, never prosper.’ You must’ve heard them. My mum’s full of them.” Ron says. I roll my eyes at his daftness.

  “Harry and I were raised by Muggles,” Hermione reminds him. “We were taught different superstitions.” She sighs deeply as a rather pungent smell drifts up from the kitchen. I cough and try not to hold my nose. The one good thing about Hermione’s exasperation with Xenophilius is that it seems to have made her forget that she is annoyed at Ron. “I think you’re right,” she tells him. “It’s just a morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one you’d choose —”

  The four of us speak at the same time; Hermione says, “the Cloak,” Ron says, “the wand,” and Harry and I say, “the stone.”

  We look at each other, half surprised, half amused.

  “You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron tells Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!”

  “We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” says Harry.

  “I’d just really like to see my parents again one last time. I barely remember what they look like.” I say softly.

  “And that cloak has helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed!” says Hermione, barreling on. “Whereas the wand would be bound to attract trouble —”

  “Only if you shouted about it,” argues Ron. “Only if you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable wand, come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut —”

  “Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” says Hermione, looking skeptical. “You know, the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.”

  “There have?” asks Harry.

  Hermione looks exasperated: The expression is so endearingly familiar that Harry, Ron, and I grin at each other.

  “The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up under different names through the centuries, usually in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting about them. Professor Binns mentioned some of them, but — oh, it’s all nonsense. Wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better than other people’s.”

  “But how do you know,” says Harry, “that those wands — the Deathstick and the Wand of Destiny — aren’t the same wand, surfacing over the centuries under different names?”

  “What, and they’re all really the Elder Wand, made by Death?” says Ron.

  “Could be.” I say really not liking the sound of these all-powerful wands at all.

  “So why would you take the stone Harry?” Ron asks him.

  “Well, if you could bring people back, we could have Sirius . . . Mad-Eye . . . Dumbledore . . . my parents . . .”

  Neither Ron nor Hermione smile.

  “But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn’t want to come back, would they?” says Harry, thinking about the tale we have just heard. “I don’t suppose there have been loads of other stories about a stone that can raise the dead, have there?” he asked Hermione.

  “No,” she replies sadly. “I don’t think anyone except Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that’s possible. Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you immortal, a stone to reverse death.”

  The smell from the kitchen is getting stronger: It is something like burning underpants. I wonder whether it will be possible to fake an illness to spare his feeling when not eating his soup.

  “What about the Cloak, though?” says Ron slowly. “Don’t you realize, he’s right? I’ve got so used to Harry’s Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to think. I’ve never heard of one like Harry’s. It’s infallible. We’ve never been spotted under it —”

  “Of course not — we’re invisible when we’re under it, Ron!” Hermione says.

  “But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and they’re not exactly ten a Knut, you know, is true! It’s never occurred to me before, but I’ve heard stuff about charms wearing off cloaks when they get old, or them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes in. Harry’s was owned by his dad, so it’s not exactly new, is it, but it’s just . . . perfect!”

  “Yes, all right, but Ron, the stone . . .”

  As they argued in whispers, Harry moves around the room, only half listening. I decide to follow him since there is safety in numbers. Reaching the spiral stair, we raise our eyes absently to the next level and are distracted at once. Harry’s own face is looking back at him from the ceiling of the room above.

  After a moment’s bewilderment, I realize that it is not a mirror (since I am not there), but a painting. Curious, he begins to climb the stairs with me following on his heels.

  “Harry, what are you doing? I don’t think you should look around when he’s not here!” Hermione hisses.

  But Harry and I have already reached the next level.

  Luna has decorated her bedroom ceiling with eight beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luka, Ariana, and me. They are not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts move, but there is certain magic about them all the same, they looked almost alive. What appears to be fine golden chains weave around the pictures, linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, I realize that the chains are actually one word, repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends . . . friends . . . friends . . .

  Harry feels a great rush of affection for Luna. I continue looking around the room. There is a large photograph beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who looks very like her. They are hugging. Luna looks rather better groomed in this picture than I have ever seen her in life. The picture is dusty. This strikes me as slightly odd. I look around some more.

  Something is wrong. The pale blue carpet is also thick with dust. There are no clothes in the wardrobe, whose doors stand ajar. The bed has a cold, unfriendly look, as though it has not been slept in for weeks. A single cobweb stretches over the nearest window, across a bloodred sky.

  “What’s wrong?” Hermione asks as we descended the staircase, but before we can respond, Xenophilius reaches the top of the stairs from the kitchen, now holding a tray laden with bowls.

  “Mr. Lovegood,” I say. “Where’s Luna?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where’s Luna?” Harry demands, having come to the same conclusion as me.

  Xenophilius halts on the top step.

  “I — I’ve already told you. She is down at Bottom Bridge, fishing for Plimpies.”

  “So why have you only laid that tray for four?” I challenge him, beginning to fear for Luna, we may not be close, but I care for her all the same.

  Xenophilius tries to speak, but no sounds come out. The only noise is the continued chugging of the printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as Xenophilius’s hands shake.

  “I don’t think Luna’s been here for weeks,” says Harry. “Her clothes are gone, her bed hasn’t been slept in. Where is she? And why do you keep looking out of the window?”

  Xenophilius drops the tray: The bowls bounce and smash. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I draw our wands: Xenophilius freezes, his hand about to enter his pocket. At that moment the printing press gives a huge bang and numerous Quibblers come streaming across the floor from underneath the tablecloth; the press falls silent at last.

Hermione stoops down and picks up one of the magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr. Lovegood.

  “Harry, look at this.”

  I follow behind him through all the clutter, needing to see this for myself as well. The front of The Quibbler carries Harry’s picture, emblazoned with the words UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE and captioned with the reward money.

  “The Quibbler’s going for a new angle, then?” Harry asks coldly. “Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden, Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl to the Ministry?”

  Xenophilius licks his lips.

  “They took my Luna,” he whispers. “Because of what I’ve been writing. They took my Luna and I don’t know where she is, what they’ve done to her. But they might give her back to me if I — if I —”

  “Hand over Harry?” Hermione finishes for him.

  “She wouldn’t want to come back to him. Not after he gave up her friends.” I say darkly.

  “No deal,” says Ron flatly. “Get out of the way, we’re leaving.”

  Xenophilius looks ghastly, a century old, his lips drawn back into a dreadful leer.

  “They will be here at any moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not leave.”

  He spreads his arms in front of the staircase.

  “Don’t make us hurt you,” Harry says. “Get out of the way, Mr. Lovegood.”

  “HARRY!” Hermione screams.

  Figures on broomsticks are flying past the windows. As the four of us look away from him, Xenophilius draws his wand. Harry realizes our mistake just in time: He launches himself sideways, shoving Ron, Hermione, and me out of harm’s way as Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soars across the room and hits the Erumpent horn.

  There is a colossal explosion. The sound of it seemed to blow the room apart: Fragments of wood and paper and rubble fly in all directions, along with an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flies through the air, then crashed to the floor. I hear Hermione’s scream, Ron’s yell, and a series of sickening metallic thuds, which tell me that Xenophilius has been blasted off his feet and fallen backwards down the spiral stairs. I try and suppress my own groan of pain from what I’m sure will be new bruises if we manage to make it out of here alive.

  Half buried in rubble, I try to raise myself: I can barely breathe or see for dust. Half of the ceiling has fallen in, and the end of Luna’s bed is hanging through the hole. The bust of Rowena Ravenclaw lays beside me with half its face missing, fragments of torn parchment are floating through the air, and most of the printing press lays on its side, blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen. Then another white shape moves close by, and Hermione, coated in dust like a second statue, presses her finger to her lips.

  The door downstairs crashes open.

  “Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry, Travers?” says a rough voice. “Didn’t I tell you this nutter was just raving as usual?”

  There is a bang and a scream of pain from Xenophilius.

  “No . . . no . . . upstairs . . . Potter!”

  “I told you last week, Lovegood, we weren’t coming back for anything less than some solid information! Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for that stupid bleeding headdress? And the week before” — another bang, another squeal — “when you thought we’d give her back if you offered us proof there are Crumple” — bang — “Headed” — bang — “Snorkacks?”

  “No — no — I beg you!” sobs Xenophilius. “It really is Potter! Really!”

  “And now it turns out you only called us here to try and blow us up!” roars the Death Eater, and there is a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of agony from Xenophilius.

  “The place looks like it’s about to fall in, Selwyn,” says a cool second voice, echoing up the mangled staircase. “The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing it? Might bring the place down.”

  “You lying piece of filth,” shouts the wizard named Selwyn. “You’ve never seen Potter in your life, have you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you? And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?”

  “I swear . . . I swear . . . Potter’s upstairs!”

  “Homenum revelio,” says the voice at the foot of the stairs.

  I hear Hermione gasp, and I have the odd sensation that something is swooping low over me, immersing my body in its shadow.

  “There’s someone up there all right, Selwyn,” says the second man sharply.

  “It’s Potter, I tell you, its Potter!” sobs Xenophilius. “Please . . . please . . . give me Luna, just let me have Luna . . .”

  “You can have your little girl, Lovegood,” says Selwyn, “if you get up those stairs and bring me down Harry Potter. But if this is a plot, if it’s a trick, if you’ve got an accomplice waiting up there to ambush us, we’ll see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to bury.”

  Xenophilius gives a wail of fear and despair. There are scurryings and scrapings: Xenophilius is trying to get through the debris on the stairs.

  “Come on,” Harry whispers, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

  He started to dig himself out under cover of all the noise Xenophilius is making on the staircase, and I so as well, and am free in seconds. Ron is buried deepest: Harry, Hermione, and I climb, as quietly as we can, over all the wreckage to where he lays, trying to pry a heavy chest of drawers off his legs. While Xenophilius’s banging and scraping draws nearer and nearer, Hermione manages to free Ron with the use of a Hover Charm.

  “All right,” breathes Hermione, as the broken printing press blocking the top of the stairs begins to tremble; Xenophilius is feet away from us. She is still white with dust.   “Do you trust me, Harry?”

  Harry nods.

  “Okay then,” Hermione whispers, “give me the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, Jamie, you’re going to put it on.”

  “What?” I hiss.

  “Me? But Harry —” Ron protests.

  “Please, Jamie, Ron! Harry, hold on tight to my hand, Ron, grab my shoulder.”

  Harry holds out his left hand. Ron and I vanish beneath the Cloak. The printing press blocking the stairs is vibrating: Xenophilius is trying to shift it using a Hover Charm. I do not know what Hermione is waiting for.

  “Hold tight,” she whispers. “Hold tight . . . any second . . .”

  Xenophilius’s paper-white face appears over the top of the sideboard.

  “Obliviate!” cries Hermione, pointing her wand first into his face, then at the floor beneath them. “Deprimo!”

  She blasts a hole in the sitting room floor. We fall like boulders, I hold onto Ron for dear life; there is a scream from below, and I glimpse two men trying to get out of the way as vast quantities of rubble and broken furniture rain all around them from the shattered ceiling. Hermione twists in midair and the thundering of the collapsing house rings in my ears as she drags us once more into darkness.


	16. The Deathly Hallows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 16: The Deathly Hallows

 

  I fall, panting, onto grass and scramble up at once. We seem to have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione is already running in a circle around us, waving her wand.

  “Protego Totalum . . . Salvio Hexia . . .”

  “That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron pants, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!”

  “Cave Inimicum . . . Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!”

  “I still can’t believe that all happened.” I say trying to stop the slight ringing in my ears.

  “Serves him right,” says Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs. “What d’you reckon they’ll do to him?”

  “Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” groans Hermione. “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”

  “Why hide me and Jamie, though?” asks Ron.

  “You and Jamie are supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”

  I pale at the thought of a lot more Death Eaters showing up on the doorstep of the Burrow demanding answers, and not getting them.

  “But what about your mum and dad?” I ask finally, my voice sounding a little faint.

  “They’re in Australia,” says Hermione. “They should be all right. They don’t know anything.”

  “You’re a genius,” Ron repeats, looking awed.

  “Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agrees Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “You never hear me doubting you.” I chip in.

  She beams, but becomes solemn at once.

  “What about Luna?” Hermione asks.

  “Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive —” begins Ron.

  “Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squeals Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!”

  “Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” says Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though . . . Loads don’t . . .”

  “She will,” says Harry looking grim but determined. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”

  “I can totally see that. She’ll have a group of followers in no time.” I reply with a faint grin.

  “I hope you’re right,” says Hermione. She passes a hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if —”

  “— If he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” says Ron.

  We put up the tent and retreat inside it, where Ron makes us tea (normal this time). After our narrow escape, the chilly, musty old place feels like home: safe, familiar, and friendly.

  “Oh, why did we go there?” groans Hermione after a few minutes’ silence. “Harry, you were right, it was Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of time! The Deathly Hallows . . . such rubbish . . . although actually,” a sudden thought seems strike her, “he might have made it all up, mightn’t he? He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until the Death Eaters arrived!”

  “I don’t think so,” says Ron. “It’s a damn sight harder making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught me. It was much easier pretending to be Stan, because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put. I reckon he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, just to keep us talking.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighs Hermione. “Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”

  “Hang on, though,” says Ron. “The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?”

  “A very real and frightening myth thank you very much, which nearly killed Ginny, Harry, and me.” I say shuddering at the memory of the Basilisk.

  “But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!” Hermione cries.

  “You keep saying that, but one of them can,” says Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak —”

  “‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story,” says Hermione firmly. “A story about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have everything we need already!”

  “I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wand,” says Harry, turning the blackthorn wand he so dislikes over in his fingers.

  “There’s no such thing, Harry!”

  “You said there have been loads of wands — the Deathstick and whatever they were called —” I say trying to think out a solution.

  “All right, even if you three want to kid yourself the Elder Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?” Her fingers sketch quotation marks around the name, and her tone drips sarcasm. “No magic can raise the dead, and that’s that!”

  “When my wand connected with You-Know-Who’s, it made my mum and dad appear . . . and Cedric . . .” Harry says.

  “But they weren’t really back from the dead, were they?” says Hermione. “Those kinds of — of pale imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone back to life.”

  “But she, the girl in the tale, didn’t really come back, did she? The story says that once people are dead, they belong with the dead. But the second brother still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he? He even lived with her for a while . . .” I say, thinking about possibly having that opportunity. It would be something I’d have to share with Luka, or else not at all.

  I see concern and something less easily definable in Hermione’s expression. Then, as she glances at Ron, I realize that it is fear: Harry and I have scared her with all our talk of living with dead people.

  “So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s Hollow,” Harry says hastily, trying to sound robustly sane, “you don’t know anything about him, then?”

  “No,” she replies, looking relieved at the change of subject. “I looked him up after I saw the mark on his grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ is Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed it from Kreacher,” she explains as Ron raises his eyebrows. “It lists the pure-blood families that are now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest families to vanish.”

  “‘Extinct in the male line’?” repeats Ron.

  “It means the name’s died out,” says Hermione, “centuries ago, in the case of the Peverells. They could still have descendants, though, they’d just be called something different.”

  “So not necessarily a bad thing.” I point out fiddling with my necklace absently.

  Harry cries out suddenly, “Marvolo Gaunt!”

  “Sorry?” say Ron and Hermione together.

  “Marvolo Gaunt! You-Know-Who’s grandfather! In the Pensieve! With Dumbledore! Marvolo Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!” Harry says sounding a cross between sick and excited.

  Ron, Hermione, and I give him bewildered looks.

  “The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux, Marvolo Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it! I saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry’s face, he nearly shoved it up his nose!”

  “The Peverell coat of arms?” says Hermione sharply. “Could you see what it looked like?”

  “Not really,” says Harry, trying to remember. “There was nothing fancy on there, as far as I could see; maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it really close up after it had been cracked open.”

  I see Hermione’s comprehension in the sudden widening of her eyes. Ron is looking from one to the other, astonished.

  “Blimey . . . You reckon it was this sign again? The sign of the Hallows?” Ron asks, almost breathless.

  “Its too much of a coincidence.” I say finding myself beginning to believe this story.

  “Why not?” says Harry excitedly. “Marvolo Gaunt was an ignorant old git who lived like a pig, all he cared about was his ancestry. If that ring had been passed down through the centuries, he might not have known what it really was. There were no books in that house and trust me, he wasn’t the type to read fairy tales to his kids. He’d have loved to think the scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because as far as he was concerned, having pure blood made you practically royal.”

  “Yes . . . and that’s all very interesting,” says Hermione cautiously, “but Harry, if you’re thinking what I think you’re think —”

  “Well, why not? Why not?” says Harry, abandoning caution. “It was a stone, wasn’t it?” He looks at Ron and me for support. “What if it was the Resurrection Stone?”

  Ron’s mouth falls open.

  “Blimey — but would it still work if Dumbledore broke — ?”

  “It’d be hard to tell…” I say, my head beginning to hurt again trying to wrap my mind around this.

  “Work? Work? Ron, it never worked! There’s no such thing as a Resurrection Stone!”

  Hermione has leaped to her feet, looking exasperated and angry. “Harry, you’re trying to fit everything into the Hallows story —”

  “Fit everything in?” he repeats. “Hermione, it fits of its own accord! I know the sign of the Deathly Hallows was on that stone! Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!”

  “A minute ago you told us you never saw the mark on the stone properly!”

  “Where d’you reckon the ring is now?” Ron asks Harry. “What did Dumbledore do with it after he broke it open?”

  I can tell that Harry is not with us anymore. His mind is in a far different place than ours are.

  “Harry?” Hermione asks him worriedly. Harry is seriously not acting like himself at all. He’s running his fingers over the cloak slowly, almost like he’s caressing the fabric. Okay I think that this level of obsession isn’t healthy. Harry gasps suddenly.

  “Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents died!”

  His voice shakes and I can see that he’s losing color in his face.

  “My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the Cloak! This is why! He wanted to examine it, because he thought it was the third Hallow! Ignotus Peverell is buried in Godric’s Hollow . . .” Harry is walking blindly around the tent. “He’s my ancestor! I’m descended from the third brother! It all makes sense!”

  “Harry,” says Hermione again, but he is busy undoing the pouch around his neck, his fingers shaking hard.

  “Read it,” he tells her, pushing his mother’s letter into her hand. “Read it! Dumbledore had the Cloak, Hermione! Why else would he want it? He didn’t need a Cloak, he could perform a Disillusionment Charm so powerful that he made himself completely invisible without one!”

  Something falls to the floor and rolls, glittering, under a chair: He has dislodged the Snitch when he pulled out the letter. He stoops to pick it up, but he springs up almost instantly with it in his hands.

  “IT’S IN HERE! He left me the ring — it’s in the Snitch!” He shouts.

  “You — you reckon?” I say very unsure about Harry’s stability at the moment.

  “Yeah mate, how can you be positive?” Ron asks.

  “That’s what he’s after.” Harry says after a while.

  The change in his voice makes Ron and Hermione look even more scared, and I’m right there along with them.

  “You-Know-Who’s after the Elder Wand.” Harry says.

  With that he walks away from us, out of the tent. Ron, Hermione, and I stand at the opening looking out after him.

  “I think this has gone too far. It’s going to eat him alive.” I state sure that this is the case.

  “He’s mad. He has the wrong idea. The Deathly Hallows don’t exist.” Hermione says with a tremor in her voice.

  “Because they don’t exist, or because you can’t fathom a reality where they do?” Ron asks, and both Hermione and I are stunned for a moment, for that is probably one of the deepest things Ron has ever said.

  We stand there for a few more minutes in silence waiting for Harry to turn back around, before retreating back into the tent. My head is throbbing with all the information that I have tried to cram in there all at once. It seems crazy, but there are some things out there that seem just crazy enough to actually be true.

  Harry comes back into the tent looking slightly shocked that we’re all still in our original positions.   

  “This is it,” Harry says, trying to bring us over to his side. “This explains everything. The Deathly Hallows are real, and I’ve got one — maybe two —”

He held up the Snitch.

  “— and You-Know-Who’s chasing the third, but he doesn’t realize . . . he just thinks it’s a powerful wand —”

  “Harry,” says Hermione, moving across to him and handing him back Lily’s letter, “I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got this wrong, all wrong.”

  “But don’t you see? It all fits —”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she says. “It doesn’t, Harry, you’re just getting carried away. Please,” she says as he starts to speak, “please just answer me this: If the Deathly Hallows really existed, and Dumbledore knew about them, knew that the person who possessed all three of them would be master of Death — Harry, why wouldn’t he have told you? Why?”

  Harry has his answer ready.

  “But you said it, Hermione! You’ve got to find out about them for yourself! It’s a Quest!”

  “But I only said that to try and persuade you to come to the Lovegoods’!” cries Hermione in exasperation. “I didn’t really believe it!”

  Harry takes no notice.

  “Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for myself. He let me try my strength, take risks. This feels like the kind of thing he’d do.”

  “Harry, this isn’t a game, this isn’t practice! This is the real thing, and Dumbledore left you very clear instructions: Find and destroy the Horcruxes! That symbol doesn’t mean anything, forget the Deathly Hallows, we can’t afford to get sidetracked —”

  Hermione appeals to Ron and me.

  “You don’t believe in this, do you?”

  Harry looks up.

  “I think that it’s an interesting idea, but I’m just not sure it could be real. I rather we focus on something that we can do destroy Horcruxes.” I determine, unable to meet Harry’s gaze.

 Ron hesitates.

  “I dunno . . . I mean . . . bits of it sort of fit together,” says Ron awkwardly. “But when you look at the whole thing . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I think we’re supposed to get rid of Horcruxes, Harry. That’s what Dumbledore told us to do. Maybe . . . maybe we should forget about this Hallows business.”

  “Thank you, Ron,” says Hermione. “I’ll take first watch.”

  And she strides past Harry and sits down in the tent entrance, bringing the action to a fierce full stop.

  That evening is awkward, with Harry off in his own head. Hermione, Ron, and I huddle near the entrance talking quietly, while keeping watch, and I scrawl down the confusing thoughts in another letter to Ariana. Not for the first time, do I wish that either she, or maybe Luka were here, they are wickedly smart, and would be able to figure out the truth.

  That night I am able to get some thankfully dreamless sleep, I have been needing the rest, since this whole adventure has been having a lot more action in the past few days than the last couple of months combined.

  We pack up the tent next morning and move on through a dreary shower of rain. The downpour pursues us to the coast, where we pitch the tent that night, and persists through the whole week, through sodden landscapes that I find bleak and depressing.

  Harry has isolated himself from us. He blames the three of us for not following along with his theory about the Deathly Hallows like we usually would. He gets angry and often accuses us about our obsession with the Horcruxes.

  “Obsession?” says Hermione in a low fierce voice, when Harry is careless enough to use the word one evening, after Hermione told him off for his lack of interest in locating more Horcruxes. “We’re not the ones with an obsession, Harry! We’re the ones trying to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!”

  I have to close my eyes at the continued fight that the groups seems to keep having with each other.

  “‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,’” Harry quotes calmly.

  “I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to be fighting?” Hermione retorts.

  Harry is not even interested in discussing who could have casted the Silver Doe Patronus that he and Ron saw in the woods that night, though no for the lack of my trying.

  As the weeks creep on, I notice, that with Harry’s new self-absorption, Ron seems to be taking charge. Perhaps because he is determined to make up for having walked out on us, perhaps because Harry’s descent into listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities, Ron is the one now encouraging and exhorting the rest of us into action.

  “Three Horcruxes left,” he keeps saying. “We need a plan of action, come on! Where haven’t we looked? Let’s go through it again. The orphanage . . .”

  Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and Burkes, Albania, every place that they knew Tom Riddle has ever lived or worked, visited or murdered, Ron, Hermione, and I rake over them again, Harry joining in only to stop Hermione and me from pestering him. Ron insists on journeying to ever more unlikely places simply, as it seems, to keep us moving.

  “You never know,” is Ron’s constant refrain. “Upper Flagley is a Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to live there. Let’s go and have a poke around.”

  These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brings us within occasional sight of Snatchers.

  “Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters,” says Ron. “The lot that got me were a bit pathetic, but Bill reckons some of them are really dangerous. They said on Potterwatch —”

  “On what?” says Harry, finally tuning back into the real world.

  “Potterwatch, didn’t I tell you that’s what it was called? The program I keep trying to get on the radio, the only one that tells the truth about what’s going on! Nearly all the programs are following You-Know-Who’s line, all except Potterwatch. I really want you to hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in. . . .”

  Ron spends evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while the dials whirl. Occasionally we will catch snatches of advice on how to treat dragon pox, and once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love.” While he taps, Ron continues to try to hit on the correct password, muttering strings of random words under his breath.

  “They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he tells us. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end . . .”

  But not until March does luck favor Ron at last. Harry is sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, when Ron shouts excitedly from inside the tent. I lift my head up from the table where I may or may not have been taking a nap.

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Harry!”

  Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurries back inside the tent to find Ron, Hermione, and me kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, who was polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, is sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice is issuing. I can’t believe that this is happening.

  “. . . apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”

  “But that’s Lee Jordan!” says Hermione.

  “I know!” beams Ron. “Cool, eh?”

  “Could have guessed he’d be behind it.” I say with a grin.

  “. . . now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee is saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”

  “Hi.”

  “Evening, River.”

  “‘River,’ that’s Lee,” Ron explains. “They’ve all got code names, but you can usually tell —”

  “Shh!” says Hermione.

  “But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee goes on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”

  I feel sick. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I gaze at one another in horror.

  “A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news.”

  “Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities are attributing the deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse — more evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime.

  “Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.

  “Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters.”

  In the silence Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I don’t dare look at each other, only at the small radio producing the grim news.

  “Thank you,” says Lee’s voice. “And now we turn to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”

  “Thanks, River,” says an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring. Oh thank Merlin Kingsley is alive! Before I can stop it a tear of relief falls down my cheek.

  “Kingsley!” bursts out Ron.

  “We know!” says Hermione, hushing him, and grabbing my hand.

  “Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” says Kingsley. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”

  “And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be ‘Wizards first’?” asks Lee.

  “I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’” replies Kingsley. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.”

  “Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” says Lee. “And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’”

  “Thanks, River,” says another very familiar voice; Ron starts to speak, but Hermione forestalls him in a whisper.

  “We know its Lupin!”

  “Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?”

  “I do,” says Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”

  “And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”

  “I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” says Lupin then hesitates slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”

  Harry looks at Hermione, whose eyes are full of tears.

  “Nearly always right,” she repeats.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” says Ron in surprise. “Bill told me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently she’s getting pretty big too . . .”

  “. . . and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee is saying.

  “Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” says Lupin.

  “At least he’s still alive!” mutters Ron.

  “We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid” — all four of us gasp, and so nearly miss the rest of the sentence — “well-known gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’ party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.”

  “I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” asks Lee.

  “It would tend to give you an edge,” agree Lupin gravely. “May I just add that while we here at Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against following Hagrid’s lead. ‘Support Harry Potter’ parties are unwise in the present climate.”

  “Indeed they are, Romulus,” says Lee, “so we suggest that you continue to show your devotion to the man with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatch! And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent.”

  “‘Rodent’?” says yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I cry out together:

  “Fred!”

  “No — is it George?”

  “It’s Fred, I think,” says Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it is says,

  “I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!”

  “Oh, all right then. ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”

  “Yes, River, I can,” says Fred. “As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”

  “Which suits him, of course,” says Kingsley. “The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.”

  “Agreed,” says Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.”

  For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry is laughing. I have a grin on my face, and I can tell that this is lifting all of our spirits up.

  “And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” asks Lee.

  “Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?” asks Fred. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning on taking any risks. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!”

  I can’t help but laugh at those comments bringing more tears to my eyes. Just hearing my family alive and well is more than enough to overwhelm me at the moment.

  “Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” says Lee. “Listeners, that brings us to the end of another Potterwatch. We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night.”

  The radio’s dial twirls and the lights behind the tuning panel go out. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are still beaming, though I’m wiping my cheeks as well. Hearing familiar, friendly voices is an extraordinary tonic.

  “Good, eh?” says Ron happily.

  “Brilliant,” says Harry.

  “It’s so brave of them,” sighs Hermione admiringly. “If they were found . . .”

  “Mum would kill Fred.” I say, shuddering at the thought of my mother. Ridiculously it makes me happy that the fact that I can still be scared of my mum after all this time makes me feel better.

  “Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” says Ron. “Like us.”

  “But did you hear what Fred said?” asks Harry excitedly. “He’s abroad! He’s still looking for the Wand, I knew it!”

  “Harry —” I say really not liking this train of thought again.

  “Seriously Harry…” Hermione groans.

  “Come on, Hermione and Jamie, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol —”

  “HARRY, NO!” Ron and I shout.

  “— demort’s after the Elder Wand!”

  “The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellows, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounds outside the tent. “I told you, Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore — we’ve got to put the protection back around us — quickly — it’s how they find —”

  But Ron stops talking, and I know why. The Sneakoscope on the table has lit up and is spinning; we can hear voices coming nearer and nearer: rough, excited voices.   Ron pulls the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicks it: our lamps go out.

  “Come out of there with your hands up!” comes a rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”

  I feel my heart lodge painfully in my throat. This is not how it’s supposed to end. We have survived and escaped from too much to have it end like this. Even in the dark, my hand makes its way up to my necklace, where I squeeze with all my might, as my other hand grips my wand tightly.

  If this is going to be my last night— I want my love to at least know that I was thinking about her.


	17. Malfoy Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 17- Malfoy Manor

 

  It was chaos. There is no other word to describe darkness with a sudden flash of light, and then absolute panic, and an attempted flight, that ends with you tackled to the ground and pinned there, with your head colliding so hard with a rock, that you believe that you’re concussed.

  The ringing pain in worse in my head than it ever has been in the past. A roll of nausea comes in when I smell my captor’s rancid breath on my face. “Well aren’t you a pretty thing?” The rough voice grates on my ear, and I shudder as I feel a hand slide where I do not want it.

  “Get — off — her!” Ron shouts. There is the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron grunts in pain and Hermione screams causing my head to throb, “No! Leave him alone, leave him alone!”

  “Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done to him if he’s on my list,” says the horribly familiar, rasping voice. “Delicious girl . . . What a treat . . . I do enjoy the softness of the skin . . .”

  My stomach turns over. I know who this is: Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who is permitted to wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired savagery.

  “Search the tent!” says another voice.

  I groan as I’m hauled to my feet, my head spinning and the ground shifting to and fro. I’m forced forward a few ungainly steps before I’m thrown back onto the ground.

  We can hear footsteps and crashes; the men are pushing over chairs inside the tent as they search.

  “Now, let’s see who we’ve got,” says Greyback’s gloating voice from overhead, and if I squint, I can see a very deformed Harry being rolled over onto his back. A beam of wandlight falls into his face and Greyback laughed.

  “I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?”

  Harry does not answer immediately.

  “I said,” repeats Greyback, and Harry receives a blow to the diaphragm that makes him double over in pain, “what happened to you?”

  “Stung,” Harry mutters. “Been stung.”

  “Yeah, looks like it,” says a second voice.

  “What’s your name?” snarls Greyback.

  “Dudley,” says Harry.

  “And your first name?”

  “I — Vernon. Vernon Dudley.”

  “Check the list, Scabior,” says Greyback, and I hear him move sideways to look down at Ron, instead. “And what about you, ginger?”

  “Stan Shunpike,” says Ron.

  “Like ’ell you are,” says the man called Scabior. “We know Stan Shunpike, ’e’s put a bit of work our way.”

  There is another thud.

  “I’b Bardy,” says Ron, and I can tell even with my fogged head that his mouth is full of blood. “Bardy Weadley.”

  “A Weasley?” rasps Greyback. “So you’re related to blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood. And next, your pretty little friend . . .” The relish in his voice makes my flesh crawl.

  “Easy, Greyback,” says Scabior over the jeering of the others.

  “Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny. Who are you, girly?”

  “Penelope Clearwater,” says Hermione. She sounds terrified, but convincing.

  “What’s your blood status?”

  “Half-blood,” says Hermione.

  “Easy enough to check,” says Scabior.

  Then they turn to me finally and the wandlight is bright in my face. “And you?”

  “Jessica Owens.” I slur, my voice sounds odd even to my own ears.

  “And yer blood status?” It’s another voice this time.

  “Half-blood, mum’s a witch, dad’s a muggle, right nasty surprise for him.” I groan, squinting my eyes.

  “Again easy enough to check.” relays Scabior. “But the ’ole lot of ’em look like they could still be ’ogwarts age —”

  “We’b lebt,” says Ron.          

  “Left, ’ave you, ginger?” says Scabior. “And you decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”

  “Nod a laugh,” says Ron. “Aggiden.”

  “Accident?” There is more jeering laughter that hurts my head.

  “You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name, Weasley?” growls Greyback. “The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”

  “Doh.”

  “Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked that way. We’ll see. Bind them up with the other two prisoners!”

  Someone yanks me up by the hair, drags me a short way, pushes me down into a sitting position then starts binding me back-to-back with other people. When at last the man tying us has walked away, Harry whispers to the other prisoners.

  “Anyone still got a wand?”

  “No,” say Ron, Hermione from around Harry.

  “This is all my fault. I said the name, I’m sorry —” Harry starts.

  “Harry?”

  It is a new, but familiar, voice, and it comes from directly behind me, from the person tied to Hermione’s left.

  “Dean?” I croak along with Harry.

  “It is you! If they find out who they’ve got — ! They’re Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for gold —”

  “Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback is saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots march close by me and I hear more crashes from inside the tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and four truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?” he roars.

  “Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley on ’ere, Greyback.”

  “Interesting,” says Greyback. “That’s interesting.”

  “So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on that list under a different name? What House were you in at Hogwarts?”

  “Slytherin,” says Harry automatically.

  “Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,” jeers Scabior out of the shadows. “But none of ’em can tell us where the common room is.”

  “It’s in the dungeons,” says Harry clearly. “You enter through the wall. It’s full of skulls and stuff and it’s under the lake, so the light’s all green.”

  There is a short pause.

  “Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little Slytherin,” says Scabior. “Good for you, Vernon, ’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s your father?”

  “He works at the Ministry,” Harry lies. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

  “You know what, Greyback,” says Scabior. “I think there is a Dudley in there.”

  “Well, well,” says Greyback. “If you’re telling the truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for picking you up.”

  “But,” says Harry, his mouth bone dry, “if you just let us —”

  “Hey!” comes a shout from inside the tent. “Look at this, Greyback!”

  A dark figure comes bustling towards us, and I see a glint of silver in the light of their wands. They have found Gryffindor’s sword.

  “Ve-e-ry nice,” says Greyback appreciatively, taking it from his companion. “Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made that. Where did you get something like this?”

  “It’s my father’s,” Harry lies. “We borrowed it to cut firewood —”

  “’ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!” My blood runs cold, and a sweat breaks out on the back on my neck. This can’t be good we were so close to at least being marginally okay instead of dead.

  “‘’ermione Granger,’” Scabior is saying, “‘the Mudblood who is known to be traveling with ’arry Potter.’”

  I hear the creak of Greyback’s boots as he crouches down in front of Hermione.

  “You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you.”

  “It isn’t! It isn’t me!” Hermione’s terrified squeak is as good as a confession.

  “‘ . . . known to be traveling with Harry Potter,’” repeats Greyback quietly.

  “Well, this changes things, doesn’t it?” whispers Greyback. Nobody speaks: I sense the gang of Snatchers watching, frozen, and feel Hermione’s arm trembling against mine. Greyback gets up and takes a couple of steps to where Harry sits, crouching down again to stare closely at his misshapen features.

  “What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asks softly.

  “Don’t touch it!” Harry yells.

  “I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” breathes Greyback.

  “I found glasses!” yelps one of the Snatchers skulking in the background. “There was glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait —”

  And seconds later Harry’s glasses have been rammed back onto his face. The Snatchers are closing in now, peering at him.

  “It is!” rasps Greyback. “We’ve caught Potter!”

  They all take several steps backwards, stunned by what they have done. My heart is heavy inside my chest, and my stomach feels like I have swallowed a brick of lead. This was not how this was supposed to end. Good was supposed to triumph over evil. I can’t believe that I cam still so naïve enough to believe in fantasies like that. This is the real world, and happy endings don’t often come about. I resolve to myself right here and now that whatever happens, I am going to face it without fear. This was always a possibility; I will stay as strong as I can for as long as I can.

  “. . . to the Ministry?” My head is throbbing again to the point that conversations are coming in and out.

  “To hell with the Ministry,” growls Greyback. “They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who.”

  “Will you summon ’im? ’ere?” says Scabior, sounding awed, terrified.

  “No,” snarls Greyback, “I haven’t got — they say he’s using the Malfoys’ place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.”

  “. . . completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead.”

  “Who’s in charge here?” roars Greyback, covering his moment of inadequacy. “I say that’s Potter, and him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get the girl thrown in!”

  “All right!” says Scabior. “All right, we’re in! And what about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with ’em?”

  “Might as well take the lot. We’ve got two Mudbloods, that’s another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune right there.”

  The prisoners are dragged to our feet. I can hear Hermione’s breathing, fast and terrified.

  “Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!” says Greyback. “On three! One — two — three —”

  They Disapparate, pulling the prisoners with them. I try to struggle, to throw off their hold, but it is hopeless: Ron, Hermione, and Harry are squeezed tightly against me on either side I cannot separate from the group.

  The prisoners lurch into one another as we land in a country lane. I see a pair of wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looks like a long drive.

  One of the Snatchers strides to the gates and shakes them.

  “How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t — blimey!”

  He whips his hands away in fright. The iron is contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and coils into a frightening face, which speaks in a clanging, echoing voice: “State your purpose!”

  “We’ve got Potter!” Greyback roars triumphantly. “We’ve captured Harry Potter!”

  The gates swing open.

  “Come on!” says Greyback to his men, and the prisoners are shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffle our footsteps. I see a ghostly white shape above me, and realize it is an albino peacock. Harry stumbles and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback after throwing off the group; we are all staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the five other prisoners.

  Light spills out over all of us.

  “What is this?” says a woman’s cold voice.

  “We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasps Greyback.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know me!” There is resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”

  Greyback seizes Harry and drags him around to face the light, forcing the rest of us prisoners to shuffle around too.

  “I know ’e’s swollen, ma’am, but it’s ’im!” pipes up Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ’is scar. And this ’ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ’im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ’im, and we’ve got ’is wand as well! ’Ere, ma’am —”

  Even with my bad view and aching head I can just manage to see Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing Harry’s swollen face. Scabior thrusts the blackthorn wand at her. She raises her eyebrows.

  “Bring them in,” she says.

  We are shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.

  “Follow me,” says Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”

  The drawing room dazzles after the darkness outside. The room is very wide. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rise from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as we the prisoners, are forced into the room by the Snatchers.

  “What is this?”

  The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy falls on my ears. There is no way out of this. Our end is actually going to be brought about by the Malfoy’s. How cruel is that?

  “They say they’ve got Potter,” says Narcissa’s cold voice. “Draco, come here.”

  I can’t see Draco from my position slightly off from the side of Harry, but I can just picture his pale face with even paler slicked back blond hair on his head.

  Greyback forces the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.

  “Well, boy?” rasps the werewolf.

  There are a few seconds of silence, in which I swear that it is possible to hear my heart beating out of my chest.

  “Well, Draco?” says Lucius Malfoy. He sounds avid. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

  “I can’t — I can’t be sure,” says Draco. If only I could tell exactly what is going on, I would not be half as terrified at the moment as I am now.

  “But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”

  I have never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited before.

  “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv —”

  “Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” says Greyback menacingly.

  “Of course not, of course not!” says Lucius impatiently. I can hear shuffling so I assume that both father and son are approach Harry more closely to look at him.

  “What did you do to him?” Lucius asks Greyback. “How did he get into this state?”

  “That wasn’t us.”

  “Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” says Lucius.

  “There’s something there,” he whispers, “it could be the scar, stretched tight . . . Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Malfoy says, and he walks away towards the fireplace where his mother stands watching and where thankfully I can see them.

  “We had better be certain, Lucius,” Narcissa calls to her husband in her cold, clear voice. “Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord . . . They say this is his” — she is looking closely at the blackthorn wand — “but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description . . . If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing . . . Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”

  “What about the Mudblood, then?” growls Greyback. I am nearly thrown off my feet as the Snatchers force the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light falls on Hermione instead.

  “Wait,” says Narcissa sharply. “Yes — yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”

  “I . . . maybe . . . yeah.” Malfoy sputters sounding unsure.

  “But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” shouts Lucius, striding around the bound prisoners to face Ron. “It’s them, Potter’s friends — Draco, look at him, isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name — ?”

  “Yeah,” says Draco again, his back to the prisoners. “It could be.”

  “And I could recognize this face from anywhere. Must not have taken a close enough look boys, if you didn’t recognize a Pendragon when she stares you in the face.” Lucius snarls, forcing my head back by my hair. I look up into his cold gray eyes, and I resolve myself to do nothing but glare in return.

  The drawing room door opens behind me. A woman speaks, and the sound of the voice winds my fear to an even higher pitch.

  “What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?”

  Bellatrix Lestrange walks slowly around the prisoners, and stops on my right, staring at Hermione through her heavily lidded eyes. It’s the person behind her that has my hair standing on end. He cut his hair a little bit. It is still the same sandy blond color that it was last I saw him, but now it falls around his shoulders. There is slight stubble along his jaw, but the thing that gets me most, are the steel blue eyes that are boring into mine.

  I can tell that he is excited just by the mere sight of me. There is no more need for hunting on his part, when his pray comes right to his doorstep. His name sits heavily on my tongue and my chest feels like an elephant is sitting on it. Augustus.

  “But surely,” Bellatrix says quietly, “this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” cries Lucius. “And beside her, we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!”

  “Potter?” shrieks Bellatrix, and she backs away, the better to take in Harry. “Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!”

  She drags back her left sleeve: I see the Dark Mark burned into the flesh of her arm, and knew that she is about to touch it, to summon her beloved master —

  “I was about to call him!” says Lucius, and his hand actually closes upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark. Augustus takes a threatening step forward towards Lucius. “I shall summon him, Bella, Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority —”

  “Your authority!” she sneers attempting to wrench her hand from his grasp. “You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!”

  “You’d best listen to her, if you want this to be the last thing that you ever do in this life.” Augustus growls low in his voice.

  “This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy —” Lucius stammers.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy,” interjects Greyback, “but it’s us that caught Potter, and it’s us that’ll be claiming the gold —”

  “Gold!” laughs Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off her brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her pocket for her wand. “Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honor of his — of —”

  She stops struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon something I cannot see. Jubilant at her capitulation, Lucius throws her hand from him and rips up his own sleeve —

  “STOP!” shrieks Bellatrix. “Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”

  Lucius freezes, his index finger hovering over his own Mark. Bellatrix strides out of my limited line of vision.

  “What is that?” I hear her say.

  “Sword,” grunts an out-of-sight Snatcher.

  “Give it to me.”

  “It’s not yorn, missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.”

  There is a bang and a flash of red light: I know that the Snatcher has been Stunned.   There is a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior draws his wand.

  “What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?”

  “Stupefy!” she screams. “Stupefy!”

  While listening I haven’t taken my eyes off Augustus, watching as he simply sits back and lets Bellatrix do all the work herself. I guess when your girlfriend is as powerful and deranged as she is, that you don’t mind taking the back seat on certain issues. A small spark of defiance kindles in me at being faced again with my parents’ murderer. I may be scared out of my mind and most likely concussed but I won’t let him get away completely unscathed, even if it is only with my words.

  The Snatchers are no match for her even though there are four of them against one of her: She is a witch, and I know, with prodigious skill and no conscience. They fall where they stand, all except Greyback, who has been forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched. Out of the corners of my eyes I see Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face waxen.

  “Where did you get this sword?” she whispers to Greyback as she pulls his wand out of his unresisting grip.

  “How dare you?” he snarls, his mouth the only thing that can move as he is forced to gaze up at her. He bares his pointed teeth. “Release me, woman!”

  “Where did you find this sword?” she repeats, brandishing it in his face. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!”

  “It was in their tent,” rasps Greyback. “Release me, I say!”

  She waves her wand, and the werewolf springs to his feet, but appears too wary to approach her. He prowls behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails clutching its back.

  “Draco, move this scum outside,” says Bellatrix, indicating the unconscious men. “If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me.”

  “Don’t you dare speak to Draco like —” says Narcissa furiously, but Bellatrix screams,

  “Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!”

  She stands, panting slightly, looking down at the sword examining its hilt. Then she turns to look at the silent prisoners.

  “If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed,” she mutters, more to herself than to the others. “The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself . . . But if he finds out . . . I must . . . I must know. . . .”

  She turns back to her sister again.

  “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!”

  “This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my —”

  “Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!” shrieks Bellatrix. She looks frightening, mad; a thin stream of fire issues from her wand and burns a hole in the carpet.

  Narcissa hesitates for a moment then addresses the werewolf.

  “Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”

  “Wait,” says Bellatrix sharply. “All except . . . except for the Mudblood.”

  Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.

  “And my niece. Its time that we’ve had a family reunion.” Augustus says speaking up again. For a moment I believe that Bellatrix may in fact curse him, but instead her eyes soften slightly and she nods her head.

  “No!” shouts Ron. “You can have me, keep me!”

  I don’t know for which one of us Ron is yelling about but it doesn’t matter for Bellatrix hits him across the face; the blow echoing around the room.

  “If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” she says. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them — yet.”

  Bellatrix takes a short silver knife and cuts Hermione and I free of the rest of the group of prisoners. I can’t help but find myself trembling beside Hermione. We share a quick glance and I can tell by her large frightened eyes and pale skin, that she is just as afraid of what is about to come as I am.

  That is all the time we have before Hermione is wrenched away from me in one direction, and Augustus is in front of me with a glint in his eye. “It’s been a long time Jamie, and you my girl have grown up so much.” Augustus says, and for a split second I can see the charming façade that most people seemingly cannot see around.

  I have no more time to prepare myself, before with a flick of a wand and a muttered Crucio; I am dropped to the floor screaming in agonizing pain. The feeling of all of your nerves and cells being ripped apart is so intense, that I can’t help but let loose a scream. I can vaguely hear Hermione yelling out for me before she screams in pain herself.

  They are not even going to put us in separate rooms. They are going to keep us here and let us hear and listen to each other as we are tortured.

  When I open my eyes again I see Augustus kneeling down in front of me. He is holding a silver knife similar to the one that Bellatrix used to separate Hermione and me from the rest of the prisoners. “Do you know how incredibly hard you and your brother are to find? I spent months tracking down wild leads on your location, before the Dark Lord finally summoned me back to his side.” He says.

  “I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?” Bellatrix’s voice breaks into the air around us.

  “We found it — we found it — PLEASE!” Hermione screams again. I flinch and feebly struggle to try and get away to Hermione. I yell out in pain at the sickening sound and blinding pain of my hand being crushed under Augustus’ boot.

  “There is no getting away from this Jamie,” Augustus says, before twisting his foot as breaking even more of the small bones in my hand. “You might as well resign yourself to this now.”

  I sob in relief as the pressure is taken off my hand, only to be replaced with the searing sensation of the knife he’s holding being drawn lengthwise across my stomach. I can’t help the scream that rips out of my throat at that.

  “Do you even know why I have done all this, killed so many of the people who I love, who could understand me?” Augustus asks, making another slice parallel to the last one, and gaining another cry from me. I can feel my blood pooling into my bellybutton, sopping my shirt, and running off the sides of my body to stain the floor.

  “Because you are a psychopath who needs to be dominated by a woman.” I snarl spitting up at him. Augustus’ before scarily calm face contorts into rage, and I am hit around across the face. My already ringing head screams at the impact, and now my most likely broken nose can be added into the mix. Blood streams down my face and into my mouth, and I choke, trying to get it away from me.

  “You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!” Bellatrix howls, reverberating around the walls.

  Hermione lets loose another terrible scream.

  “Mione…” I sputter, a red mist coming out of my mouth as I try and speak.

   “What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!” Bellatrix shouts again.

  Augustus pulls my head back to focus on him again, and I can see that he has regained his composure.

  “No Jamie. I killed my parents, my brother, and your whore of a mother all for something far greater than love. Something that can only exist in the blood.” Augustus explains. At seeing my confused look, he actually throws back his head and howls laughter.

  “You really aren’t taught anything are you? So much for the great and mighty Pendragon line, you’re not even educated on the family legacy. Allow me to enlighten you, though it won’t be useful all that long for you.” He says conversationally as he points his wand back at me.

  “Crucio!” He shouts, and again the sensation of fire blazing along every vein of my body, and catching all of my organs on fire consumes me. Through all of the mixed and overwhelming utterly painful sensations that tears an agonizing scream from me, there is something that I try and hold onto, any semblance of sanity to get me through this.

  “What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!” Bellatrix manages to break through my agony induced fog with her yells.

  Hermione’s screams echo off the walls, and that slowly draws me back into the present and reality. Augustus is still calmly looming over me. The differences in demeanor between the two of them are shocking, but their methods of brutality are matching.

  Augustus has some blood between his fingers that he is rubbing together. “See this Jamie. This blood is the key to everything. It runs through your veins, it runs through your brother’s veins, and it runs through mine. We are literally the last three— excuse me two people in the world to be graced with this power.”

  “Wh— two?” I moan, my overtaxed brain trying to process the horrible situation that is now being thrust at it.

  “Oh yes Luka, I paid a visit to my dear nephew and we had a chat much like this, but I must say that it did go nearly as well for him as it is for you. This draws the conclusion that you are the real person that I have to deal with.” Augustus says drawing his knife back out again.

  No. That can’t be. H-he can’t have gotten Luka. I-I would have felt it if he was gone. I would know if my brother, whom I shared a womb with for nine months was dead! Wouldn’t I? Pain, grief, and an insurmountable rage wells up inside me.

  “You see Jamie, our family got something a little extra by being direct descendants from King Arthur. Arthur got something directly from Merlin, to help him rule his Kingdom and control the people and magic that was roiling about. That magic— that power can be passed down to Arthur’s descendants, that Righteous Fury can be ours for the taking.”

  More of Hermione’s screams ring out across the hall and they are worse than ever before. Fear and worry bubble up deep inside me, and I yell in pain as Augustus switches areas to cut across my right arm, digging into the flesh.

  “How did you get into my vault?” I hear Bellatrix scream, before releasing one of my own as Augusts switches arms that he is cutting. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?”

  “We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobs. “We’ve never been inside your vault . . . It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!”

  “A copy?” screeches Bellatrix. “Oh, a likely story!”

  “But we can find out easily!” comes Lucius’s voice. “Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!”

  Only the sting of another cut to my stomach keeps the heavy darkness that is pressing down on me at bay.

  “With you gone my dear Jamie, there will be no one left for the righteous fury to reside in but me, and with this power… well lets just keep it between you and me, the Dark Lord will even think twice before coming after me.” Augustus says with a sickening smile on his face.

  I feebly try to move any part of my body to resist him but everything aches, everything hurts from my hands to surprisingly my hair. It is eerily silent as well, Hermione’s cries having come to a stop. I don’t know what scares me more her screaming or her silence, at this point I would have to say her complete and utter silence. Please don’t let Hermione be dead. My eyes slip closed against my will, and my mind floats, aimlessly until it becomes grounded again in a brilliant smile, golden blond hair, and the most beautiful pair of brown eyes that I have ever seen.

  Almost as if its happening to someone else, I can feel my body seize in pain again, but there is a numbness to me that blocks out all sensation. Ariana is in front of me dressed in her Hogwarts robes her yellow and black Hufflepuff scarf flying in the breeze with pride. A warmth grows in my chest just seeing her. I can hear the muffled and distant sounds of fighting, loud yelling, and then the feeling of someone trying to carry me or at least drag me.

  All that matters though is that Ariana is holding out her hand to me, and smiling. She is offering me warmth and belonging and most importantly love. Without a second thought I reach out my hand for hers, and the warmth expands to encompass me, before flooding away, leaving me cold and shivering, then being compressed and jolted into nothing.

  This time my darkness doesn’t have the radiant warmth of the girl who at this point might as well be my sun.

 

* * *

 

 

  ‘Oh yes Luka, I paid a visit to my dear nephew and we had a chat much like this, but I must say that it did go nearly as well for him as it is for you.’

  ‘No Jamie. I killed my parents, my brother, and your whore of a mother all for something far greater than love. Something that can only exist in the blood.’

  ‘With you gone my dear Jamie, there will be no one left for the righteous fury to reside in but me, and with this power… well lets just keep it between you and me, the Dark Lord will even think twice before coming after me.’

  “Jamie… dream… can’t hurt… wake up…” garbled words and voices start to swim through my head. Everything hurts, a painful ache has taken place in my chest where my heart should be.

  Suddenly there is pressure on my shoulder, holding me down and with a cry of fear I lash out blindly hoping against all else that something happens to my unseen assailant.

  “Jamie!” that one word said in the only voice I can recognize at the moment, causes my eyes to crash open, abject and rampant fear hurtling through my mind. My vision finally comes to focus on a pair of hollow, bone weary, brown eyes that are looking back at me.

  “M-Mione…” I croak, heaving myself up painfully from my supine position to wrap my arms around her shaking shoulders. Hermione grips me back tightly, her trembling fingers digging into my back through my shirt, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she’s alive, and we’re both here.

  I’m not sure how long we sit there holding each other for dear life, but what feels like only seconds later, I look up and see the familiar beauty of Fleur, staring at me with kind sad blue eyes. Next to her looking very serious and grim, is my oldest brother Bill. The scars on his face make him look even more serious than he actually is at the moment.

  Off to the side, sitting shakily in a chair is Ron, his face is so pale that it makes all of his freckles stand out. I barely register the fact that Dean and Luna are sitting down further in the room.

  “W-where are we?” I ask, unsure of exactly how we got here, and why I’m frankly not dead.

  “Shell Cottage.” Ron pipes up instantly.

  “Our house.” Bill explains, wrapping his arm around his wife more securely.

  “How?” my voice is trembling too much to make any longer of a sentence.

  “Dobby— got us out.” Ron says, his voice cracking over the house elf’s name.

  “Dobby died.” Hermione whispers brokenly into my shoulder. I stiffen in shock. Of all the people that I thought would have suffered for this war, I never expected it to be Dobby.

  I zone out for a few seconds, too wrapped up in the grief of everything that has happened in the last few hours.

  “. . . lucky that Ginny and Luka are on holiday. If they’d been at Hogwarts, they could have taken them before we reached them. Now we know they’re safe too.”

  “Wait! L-Luka’s alive?” I stutter unsure if I heard my older brother right. All the eyes in the room turn to me, and I awkwardly shuffle myself closer into Hermione.

  “Why wouldn’t Luka be alive?” Ron asks, sounding confused.

  “He told me Luka was dead.” I whimper, tears beginning to run freely down my cheeks again.

  “Yes Jamie, he’s alive.” Bill says, giving me a reassuring look. Relief trickles through me, and I sage further into Hermione allowing part of my grief to wash over me and away.

 “I’ve been getting them all out of the Burrow,” Bill says shifting back to the previous topic. “Moved them to Muriel’s. The Death Eaters know Ron and Jamie are with you now, they’re bound to target the family — don’t apologize,” he adds. “It was always a matter of time, Dad’s been saying so for months. We’re the biggest blood-traitor family there is.”

  “How are they protected?” asks Harry. I startle at the sound of his voice, not knowing that Harry is in fact in the room with us.

  “How are they protected?” asks Harry.

  “Fidelius Charm. Dad’s Secret-Keeper. And we’ve done it on this cottage too; I’m Secret-Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that’s hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we’ll move them to Muriel’s too. There isn’t much room here, but she’s got plenty. Griphook’s legs are on the mend, Fleur’s given him Skele-Gro; we could probably move them in an hour or —”

  “No,” Harry says, and Bill looks startled. “I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It’s important.”

  “I’m going to wash,” Harry tells Bill. “Then I’ll need to see them, straightaway.”

  Harry sounds different— I think that we are all different now. There is mainly silence in the room except for the quiet conversations coming from some of the others.

  After a few minutes Harry reappears, and makes for the stairs, but Bill and Fleur are quick to block him.

  “I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander,” Harry says.

  “No,” says Fleur. “You will ’ave to wait, ’Arry. Zey are both ill, tired —”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry says without heat, “but it can’t wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately — and separately, It’s urgent.”

  “Harry, what the hell’s going on?” asks Bill. “You turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione and Jamie look as though they’ve been tortured, and Ron’s just refused to tell me anything —” I can see the anger and strain on his face.

  “We can’t tell you what we’re doing,” says Harry flatly. “You’re in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We’re not supposed to talk about it to anyone else.”

  Fleur makes an impatient noise, but Bill does not look at her; he is staring at Harry. His deeply scarred face is hard to read. Finally Bill says, “All right. Who do you want to talk to first?”

  Harry pauses for a moment to consider his options.

  “Griphook,” Harry says. “I’ll speak to Griphook first.”

  “Up here, then,” says Bill, leading the way.

  Harry has walked up several steps before stopping and looking back.

  “I need you three as well!” he calls to Ron, Hermione and me, we had finally managed to get standing, and we were watching from the alcove into the sitting room.

  “How are you Hermione?” Harry asks her. “You were amazing — coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that —”

  Hermione gives a weak smile as Ron gives her a one-armed squeeze.

  “And you Jamie? Are you all right?” Harry questions, giving me a once over, making me think that I may have been in worse shape than Hermione at least for a little while.

  “Okay as I can be…” I say shrugging slightly, before grimacing, and shooting my gaze to the floor.

  “What are we doing now, Harry?” Ron asks.

  “You’ll see. Come on.”

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I follow Bill up the steep stairs onto a small landing.   Three doors lead off it.

  “In here,” says Bill, opening the door into his and Fleur’s room. It too has a view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunrise. Harry moves to the window, turns his back on the spectacular view, and waits, his arms folded. Hermione takes the chair beside the dressing table; Ron sits on the arm, and I sink down into the chair on the other side of the table.

  Bill reappears, carrying the little goblin whom he sets down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunts thanks, and Bill leaves, closing the door upon us all.

  “I’m sorry to take you out of bed,” says Harry. “How are your legs?”

  “Painful,” replies the goblin. “But mending.”

  He is still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wears a strange look: half truculent, half intrigued. I note the goblin’s sallow skin, his long thin fingers, his black eyes. Fleur has removed his shoes: His long feet are dirty. He is larger than a house-elf, but not by much. His domed head is much bigger than a human’s.

  “You probably don’t remember —” Harry begins.

  “— that I was the goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts?” says Griphook. “I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very famous.”

  After a moment of silence Griphook speaks.

  “You buried the elf,” he says, sounding unexpectedly rancorous. “I watched you from the window of the bedroom next door.”

  “Yes,” says Harry. I internally wince knowing how hard that must have been for Harry. So many dead, and some you never expected to go.

  Griphook looks at Harry out of the corners of his slanting black eyes.

  “You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter.”

  “In what way?” asks Harry rubbing his scar absently.

  “You dug the grave.”

  “So?”

  Griphook did not answer.

  “Griphook, I need to ask —” Harry starts.

  “You also rescued a goblin.” Griphook says.

  “What?”

  “You brought me here. Saved me.”

  “Well, I take it you’re not sorry?” says Harry a little impatiently.

  “No, Harry Potter,” says Griphook, and with one finger he twists the thin black beard upon his chin, “but you are a very odd wizard.”

  “Right,” says Harry. “Well, I need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to me.”

  The goblin makes no sign of encouragement, but continues to frown at Harry as though he has never seen anything like him.

  “I need to break into a Gringotts vault.”

  Okay I did not expect that one. A shudder of pain lances through me, and I tighten my hands on loose material of my jeans. Since when did I lose weight?

  “Harry —” says Hermione but she is cut off by Griphook.

  “Break into a Gringotts vault?” repeats the goblin, wincing a little as he shifts his position upon the bed. “It is impossible.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Ron contradicts him. “It’s been done.”

  “Yeah,” says Harry. “The same day I first met you, Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago.”

  “The vault in question was empty at the time,” snaps the goblin, and I understand that even though Griphook has left Gringotts, he is offended at the idea of its defenses being breached. “Its protection was minimal.”

  “Well, the vault we need to get into isn’t empty, and I’m guessing its protection will be pretty powerful,” says Harry. “It belongs to the Blacks.”

  Hermione, Ron, and I look at each other, astonished, but the person we really need answers from is busy now. I am not looking forward to whatever is coming next.

  “You have no chance,” says Griphook flatly. “No chance at all. If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours —”

  “Thief, you have been warned, beware — yeah, I know, I remember,” says Harry. “But I’m not trying to get myself any treasure, I’m not trying to take anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?”

  “If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain,” says Griphook finally, “it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and elves are not used to the protection or the respect that you have shown this night. Not from wand-carriers.”

  “Wand-carriers,” repeats Harry.

  “The right to carry a wand,” says the goblin quietly, “has long been contested between wizards and goblins.”

  “Well, goblins can do magic without wands,” says Ron.

  “That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wandlore with other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!”

  “Well, goblins won’t share any of their magic either,” says Ron. “You won’t tell us how to make swords and armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards have never —”

  “It doesn’t matter,” says Harry, noting Griphook’s rising color. “This isn’t about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature —”

  Griphook gives a nasty laugh.

  “But it is, it is about precisely that! As the Dark Lord becomes ever more powerful, your race is set still more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under Wizarding rule, house-elves are slaughtered, and who amongst the wand-carriers protests?”

 “We do!” says Hermione. She has sat up straight, her eyes bright. “We protest! And I’m hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I’m a Mudblood!”

  “Don’t call yourself —” Ron mutters. I wince at the name, echoes of Hermione’s screams crashing in my ears. Okay maybe I’m not ready to do anything else today.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” says Hermione. “Mudblood, and proud of it! I’ve got no higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose to torture, back at the Malfoys’!”

  As she speaks, she pulls aside the neck of the dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix made, scarlet against her throat. I wince, and look down to my own covered arm knowing that the same thin marks exist there and safely under the cover of the new shirt that I’m wearing on my stomach.

  “Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free?” she asks. “Did you know that we’ve wanted elves to be freed for years?” (Ron fidgets uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione’s chair.) “You can’t want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!”

  The goblin gazes at Hermione with the same curiosity he has shown Harry.

  “What do you seek within the Black’s vault?” he asks abruptly. “The sword that lies inside it is a fake. This is the real one.” He looks from one to the other of us.  “I think that you already know this. You asked me to lie for you back there.”

  “But the fake sword isn’t the only thing in that vault, is it?” asks Harry. “Perhaps you’ve seen the other things in there?”

  The goblin twists his beard around his finger again.

  “It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.”

  The goblin strokes the sword, and his black eyes rove from Harry to Hermione to Ron to me and then back again.

  “So young,” he says finally, “to be fighting so many.”

  I have never heard truer words spoken.

  “Will you help us?” says Harry. “We haven’t got a hope of breaking in without a goblin’s help. You’re our one chance.”

  “I shall . . . think about it,” says Griphook maddeningly.

  “But —” Ron starts angrily; Hermione nudges him in the ribs.

  “Thank you,” says Harry. I nod my head in thanks as well, not trusting my voice. I look down at my badly bruised hand realizing that from the amount of breaks that were in it before, they must have given me some Skelegrow as well.

  The goblin bows his great domed head in acknowledgement then flexes his short legs.

  “I think,” he says, settling himself ostentatiously upon Bill and Fleur’s bed, “that the Skele-Gro has finished its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me . . .”

  “Yeah, of course,” says Harry, but before leaving the room he leans forward and takes the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook does not protest, but I think I see resentment in the goblin’s eyes as Harry closes the door upon him.

  “Little git,” whispers Ron. “He’s enjoying keeping us hanging.”

  “Harry,” whispers Hermione, pulling us all away from the door, into the middle of the still-dark landing, “are you saying what I think you’re saying? Are you saying there’s a Horcrux in the Black’s vault?”

  “Yes,” says Harry. “Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we’d been in there, she was beside herself. Why? What did she think we’d seen, what else did she think we might have taken? Something she was petrified You-Know-Who would find out about.”

  “But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who’s been, places he’s done something important?” says Ron, looking baffled. “Was he ever inside the Black’s vault?”

  “I don’t know whether he was ever inside Gringotts,” says Harry. “He never had gold there when he was younger, because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley.”

  “I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I think he’d have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don’t forget, he trusted Bellatrix. She is his most devoted servant before he fell, and she went looking for him after he vanished. He said it the night he came back, I heard him.”

  Harry rubs his scar.

  “I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you want to hide, Hagrid told me . . . except for Hogwarts.”

  When Harry has finished speaking, Ron shakes his head.

  “You really understand him.”

  “Bits of him,” says Harry. “Bits . . . I just wish I’d understood Dumbledore as much. But we’ll see. Come on — Ollivander now.”

  Ron, Hermione, and I looked exchange bewildered looks but are impressed as we followed him across the little landing and knock upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur’s. A weak “Come in!” answers us.

  The wandmaker is lying on the twin bed farthest from the window. He has been held in the cellar (Ron told me) for more than a year, and tortured, on at least one occasion. He is emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out sharply against the yellowish skin. His great silver eyes seem vast in their sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket could have belonged to a skeleton. Harry sits down on the empty bed, beside Ron, Hermione, and me. The rising sun is not visible here. The room faces the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.

  “Mr. Ollivander, I’m sorry to disturb you,” Harry says.

  “My dear boy.” Ollivander’s voice is feeble. “You rescued us. I thought we would die in that place. I can never thank you . . . never thank you . . . enough.”

  “We were glad to do it.”

  Harry gropes in the pouch around his neck and takes out the two halves of his broken wand.

  “Mr. Ollivander, I need some help.”

  “Anything. Anything,” says the wandmaker weakly.

  “Can you mend this? Is it possible?”

  Ollivander holds out a trembling hand, and Harry places the two barely connected halves into his palm.

  “Holly and phoenix feather,” says Ollivander in a tremulous voice. “Eleven inches. Nice and supple.”

  “Yes,” says Harry. “Can you — ?”

  “No,” whispers Ollivander. “I am sorry, very sorry, but a wand that has suffered this degree of damage cannot be repaired by any means that I know of.”

  With a devastated look Harry takes the wand halves back and replaces them in the pouch around his neck. Ollivander stares at the place where the shattered wand vanished, and does not look away until Harry has taken from his pocket two wands I haven’t seen before.

  “Can you identify these?” Harry asks.

  The wandmaker takes the first of the wands and holds it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.

  “Walnut and dragon heartstring,” he says. “Twelve-and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand belonged to Bellatrix Black.”

  “And this one?”

  Ollivander performs the same examination.

  “Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy.”

  “Was?” repeats Harry. “Isn’t it still his?”

  “Perhaps not. If you took it —”

  “— I did —”

  “— then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change.”

  There is silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea.

  “You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,” says Harry, “like they can think for themselves.”

  “The wand chooses the wizard,” says Ollivander. “That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore.”

  “A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen them, though?” asks Harry.

  “Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.”

  The sea gushed forwards and backwards; it is a mournful sound.

  “I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force,” says Harry. “Can I use it safely?”

  “I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its new master.”

  “So I should use this one?” says Ron, pulling Wormtail’s wand out of his pocket and handing it to Ollivander.

  “Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Nine-and-a-quarter inches. Brittle. I was forced to make this shortly after my kidnapping, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding and do it well, than another wand.”

  “And this holds true for all wands, does it?” asks Harry.

  “I think so,” replies Ollivander, his protuberant eyes upon Harry’s face. “You ask deep questions, Mr. Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic.”

  “So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to take true possession of a wand?” asks Harry.

  Ollivander swallows.

  “Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill.”

  “There are legends, though,” says Harry. “Legends about a wand — or wands — that have passed from hand to hand by murder.”

  Ollivander turns pale. Against the snowy pillow he is light gray, and his eyes are enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what looks like fear.

  “Only one wand, I think,” he whispers.

  “And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn’t he?” asks Harry.

  “I — how?” croaks Ollivander, and he looks appealingly at Ron, Hermione, and me for help. “How do you know this?”

  “He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the connection between our wands,” says Harry.

  Ollivander looks terrified.

  “He tortured me, you must understand that! The Cruciatus Curse, I — I had no choice but to tell him what I knew, what I guessed!”

  “I understand,” says Harry. “You told him about the twin cores? You said he just had to borrow another wizard’s wand?”

  Ollivander looks horrified, transfixed, by the amount that Harry knows. He nodds slowly.

  “But it didn’t work,” Harry goes on. “Mine still beat the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?”

  Ollivander shakes his head as slowly as he just nodded.

  “I had . . . never heard of such a thing. Your wand performed something unique that night. The connection of the twin cores is incredibly rare, yet why your wand should have snapped the borrowed wand, I do not know . . .”

  “We were talking about the other wand, the wand that changes hands by murder. When You-Know-Who realized my wand had done something strange, he came back and asked about that other wand, didn’t he?”

  “How do you know this?”

  Harry does not answer.

  “Yes, he asked,” whispers Ollivander. “He wanted to know everything I could tell him about the wand variously known as the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder Wand.”

  Harry glances sideways at Hermione and I follow his gaze. She looks flabbergasted.

 “The Dark Lord,” says Ollivander in hushed and frightened tones, “had always been happy with the wand I made him — yew and phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches — until he discovered the connection of the twin cores. Now he seeks another, more powerful wand, as the only way to conquer yours.”

  “But he’ll know soon, if he doesn’t already, that mine’s broken beyond repair,” says Harry quietly.

  “No!” says Hermione, sounding frightened. “He can’t know that, Harry, how could he — ?”

  “Priori Incantatem,” says Harry. “We left your wand and the blackthorn wand at the Malfoys’, Hermione. If they examine them properly, make them re-create the spells they’ve cast lately, they’ll see that yours broke mine, they’ll see that you tried and failed to mend it, and they’ll realize that I’ve been using the blackthorn one ever since.”

  The little color Hermione regained since our arrival has drained from her face. I feel bad for her, but there is nothing more that I can do but hold myself together. Ron gives Harry a reproachful look, and says, “Let’s not worry about that now —”

  But Mr. Ollivander intervenes.

  “The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction, Mr. Potter. He is determined to possess it because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable.”

  “And will it?”

  “The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack,” says Ollivander, “but the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit . . . formidable.”

  “You — you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?” asks Hermione.

  “Oh yes,” says Ollivander. “Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand’s course through history. There are gaps, of course, and long ones, where it vanishes from view, temporarily lost or hidden; but always it resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. There are written accounts, some of them obscure that I and other wandmakers have made it our business to study. They have the ring of authenticity.”

  “So you — you don’t think it can be a fairy tale or a myth?” Hermione asks hopefully.

  “No,” says Ollivander. “Whether it needs to pass by murder, I do not know. Its history is bloody, but that may be simply due to the fact that it is such a desirable object, and arouses such passions in wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all of us who study the power of wands.”

  “Mr. Ollivander,” says Harry, “you told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn’t you?”

  Ollivander turns, if possible, even paler. He looks ghostly as he gulps.

  “But how — how do you — ?”

  “Never mind how I know it,” says Harry. “You told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the wand?”

  “It was a rumor,” whispers Ollivander. “A rumor, years and years ago, long before you were born! I believe Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see how good it would be for business: that he was studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder Wand!”

  “Yes, I can see that,” says Harry. He stands up. “Mr. Ollivander, one last thing, and then we’ll let you get some rest. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”

  “The — the what?” asks the wandmaker, looking utterly bewildered.

  “The Deathly Hallows.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this still something to do with wands?”

  I don’t think that he is acting. Ollivander looks truly confused.

  “Thank you,” says Harry. “Thank you very much. We’ll leave you to get some rest now.”

  Ollivander looks stricken.

  “He was torturing me!” he gasps. “The Cruciatus Curse . . . you have no idea . . .”

  “I do,” says Harry. “I really do. Please get some rest. Thank you for telling me all of this.” Most of us understand the power of that curse. A shudder runs down my spine. I force the memories back, not ready or willing to succumb to them again.

  Harry leads Ron, Hermione, and me down the staircase. I catch a glimpse of Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean sitting at the table in the kitchen, cups of tea in front of them.   They all look up at Harry as he appears in the doorway, but he merely nodds to them and continues into the garden, Ron, Hermione, and I still following him. The reddish mound of earth that covers what I’m assuming is Dobby’s grave lays ahead and we walk to it. I look at the inscription on the stone. Here lies Dobby a Free Elf.

  Pain rises up inside of me, but I force it back down, knowing that I’m going to be needed now more than ever, there is no turning back now, it almost feels as if the end is nigh.

  “Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago,” Harry says. “I saw You-Know-Who trying to find him. When he tracked him down, he found that Gregorovitch didn’t have it anymore: It was stolen from him by Grindelwald. How Grindelwald found out that Gregorovitch had it, I don’t know — but if Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor, it can’t have been that difficult.”

  “And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. And at the height of his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him, he dueled Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand.”

  “Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?” says Ron. “But then — where is it now?”

  “At Hogwarts,” says Harry, looking very pale and drawn, I believe that his scar is hurting him.

  “But then, let’s go!” says Ron urgently. “Harry, let’s go and get it before he does!”

  “It’s too late for that,” says Harry. He clutches his head, looking extremely pained. “He knows where it is. He’s there now.”

  “Harry!” Ron says furiously. “How long have you known this — why have we been wasting time? Why did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone — we could still go —”

  “No,” says Harry, and he sinks to his knees in the grass. “Hermione’s right. Dumbledore didn’t want me to have it. He didn’t want me to take it. He wanted me to get the Horcruxes.”

  “The unbeatable wand, Harry!” moans Ron.

  “I’m not supposed to . . . I’m supposed to get the Horcruxes . . .”

  We watch in horror as Harry faints, and finally hits the ground bodily. Hermione and I are down by his side as quickly as our abused bodies all us to be.

  “He’s not supposed to let him in.” Hermione moans helplessly.

  “Maybe it was too strong to fight.” I say thinking about the poison that Augustus was whispering into my ear about my family and about Luka being dead. I jump in fright when I feel warmth spread against my collarbone. I look down and see that my necklace from Ariana is still in place. A lump forms in my throat and tears start to spill down my cheeks again against my will.

  I am ready for all of this to be over. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.


	18. Shell Cottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 18- Shell Cottage

 

  Bill and Fleur’s cottage stands alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. It is a lonely and beautiful place. Wherever I go inside the tiny cottage or its garden, I can hear the constant ebb and flow of the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature. I don’t go out often in the next few days because I am still trying to find my balance again after— well after everything that happened.

  I have been kept up at night by horrible debilitating nightmares. At least I’m not the only one for Hermione has the same problem as well. After we wake up from the first round of nightmares, usually either Hermione or I crawl into the other’s bed and cuddle against each other trying to soothe the other’s fears.

  There’s something about the— experience that we shared that has brought the pair of us together again. I have been worrying my necklace even more recently, for the need for the comfort that my girlfriend would bring me would make everything feel better. I have given my everything to her, and she has done the same to me, and that means something… it makes me the closest to her as I’ve ever been.

  It’s been too long that we’ve been apart. The same growing need for my family has blossomed inside of me tenfold. I need my dad I need my mum. I need to be surrounded by all my siblings again, overwhelmed by the sheet amount of activity and noise that is going on around me, so that I can be distracted from the scary things in my head.

  Everything has not been completely relaxing around here either. There has been some level of contention between Harry and Ron since Harry made the decision not to race the Dark Lord for the Elder Wand. Ron has been very vocal in his displeasure.

  “What if Dumbledore wanted us to work out the symbol in time to get the wand?” “What if working out what the symbol meant made you ‘worthy’ to get the Hallows?” “Harry, if that really is the Elder Wand, how the hell are we supposed to finish off You-Know-Who?”

  Something that seems to off set Harry just as much as Ron’s questioning is Hermione’s support of his choice.

  “You could never have done that, Harry,” Hermione says again and again. “You couldn’t have broken into Dumbledore’s grave.”

  I on the other hand have no real opinion of the matter either way. I know that the other three are whispering about me behind my back, that there is something off about me, and maybe they’re right. I am not the same person that I was a few weeks ago, I have changed, and since that change I have immersed myself in reading the book of my family history that Dumbledore left me.

  I need to know about the Righteous Fury that has captured Augustus’ mind and sanity, and figure out if it has something to do with my power. If Ariana or Luka was here they would be able to figure this out far sooner than I would be able to. The more that I read about Arthur and Merlin and the in-depth trials and tribulations that they have gone through, the more respect that I have for the beginning of my family line.

  The thing that is the most important if not the most interesting part of the entire journal is the family tree that is dated all the way back from Arthur showing all of our descednats. I cannot believe that one of my ancestors had nine children, in the end of their life though only two survived.

  The thing that I find most interesting though is that Arthur is the only one in the entire family to have been said to possess this righteous fury. It is described as something that you do not choose but are given. There has been a nervous churning sensation in my gut the past few days. I think that I know what I have to do, but it’s going to mean doing something risky, on top of doing something riskier.

  Meanwhile Ron has even gone as far to postulate the insane conclusion that Professor Dumbledore isn’t dead. That was taking it too far, because for all his faults, I believe that he would never do that to Ariana. If she knew he was alive… I just don’t think she’s that good of an actor.

  “But is he dead?” says Ron, three days after we have arrived at the cottage. My hand has perfectly healed up again, and the knife wounds are little more than pink scars as well, but the damage that remains isn’t on the outside. Harry was staring out over the wall that separates the cottage garden from the cliff when Ron, Hermione, and I had find him from the look on Harry’s face he wishes to be no part of Hermione’s and Ron’s fight as much as I had before I’d been dragged in.

  “Yes, he is, Ron, please don’t start that again!”

  “Look at the facts, Hermione,” says Ron, speaking across Harry, who continues to gaze at the horizon. “The silver doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the mirror —”

  “Harry admits he could have imagined the eye! Don’t you, Harry?”

  “I could have,” says Harry without looking at her.

  “But you don’t think you did, do you?” asks Ron.

  “No, I don’t,” says Harry.

  “There you go!” says Ron quickly, before Hermione can carry on. “If it wasn’t Dumbledore, explain how Dobby knew we were in the cellar, Hermione?”

  “I can’t — but can you explain how Dumbledore sent him to us if he’s lying in a tomb at Hogwarts?”

  “I dunno it could’ve been his ghost!”

  “Dumbledore wouldn’t come back as a ghost,” says Harry. “He would have gone on.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘gone on’?” asks Ron, but before Harry can say any more, a voice behind us says, “’Arry?”

  Fleur has come out of the cottage, her long silver hair flying in the breeze.

  “’Arry, Grip’ook would like to speak to you. ’E eez in ze smallest bedroom, ’e says ’e does not want to be over’eard.”

  Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver messages is clear; she looks irritable as she walks back around the house.

  Griphook is waiting for us, as Fleur said, in the tiniest of the cottage’s three bedrooms, in which Hermione, Luna, and I have slept by night. He has drawn the red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, which gives the room a fiery glow at odds with the rest of the airy, light cottage.

  “I have reached my decision, Harry Potter,” says the goblin, whom is sitting cross-legged in a low chair, drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. “Though the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base treachery, I have decided to help you —”

  “That’s great!” says Harry, looking relieved beyond belief. “Griphook, thank you, we’re really —”

  “— in return,” says the goblin firmly, “for payment.”

  Slightly taken aback, Harry hesitates.

  “How much do you want? I’ve got gold.”

  “Not gold,” says Griphook. “I have gold.”

  His black eyes glitter; there are no whites to his eyes.

  “I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

  Well there goes this plan. How are you to kill Horcruxes without something strong enough to kill them?

  “You can’t have that,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Then,” says the goblin softly, “we have a problem.”

  “We can give you something else,” says Ron eagerly. “I’ll bet the Blacks have got loads of stuff, you can take your pick once we get into the vault.”

  As soon as he said it, I knew he had said the wrong thing. Griphook flushes angrily.

  “I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure treasures to which I have no right!”

  “The sword’s ours —” Ron tries arguing.

  “It is not,” says the goblin.

  “We’re Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor’s —”

  “And before it was Gryffindor’s, whose was it?” demands the goblin, sitting up straight.

  “No one’s,” says Ron. “It was made for him, wasn’t it?”

  “No!” cries the goblin, bristling with anger as he points a long finger at Ron. “Wizarding arrogance again! That sword was Ragnuk the First’s, taken from him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a lost treasure, a masterpiece of goblinwork! It belongs with the goblins! The sword is the price of my hire, take it or leave it!”

  Griphook glares at us. Harry glances at us then says, “We need to discuss this, Griphook, if that’s all right. Could you give us a few minutes?”

  The goblin nods, looking sour.

  Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Harry walks to the fireplace, brow furrowed. Behind him, Ron says, “He’s having a laugh. We can’t let him have that sword.”

  “It is true?” Harry asks Hermione. “Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?” 

  “I don’t know,” she says hopelessly. “Wizarding history often skates over what the wizards have done to other magical races, but there’s no account that I know of that says Gryffindor stole the sword.”

  “Even in Arthur’s account the difficulties with other magical races is almost all by looked over. I have no notion that they all went well, and we were justified each time…” I say.

  “It’ll be one of those goblin stories,” says Ron, “about how the wizards are always trying to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn’t asked for one of our wands.”

  “Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron,” says Hermione. “They’ve been treated brutally in the past.”

  “Goblins aren’t exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?” says Ron. “They’ve killed plenty of us. They’ve fought dirty too.”

  “But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most underhanded and violent isn’t going to make him more likely to help us, is it?” I point out wearily, having my energy drained for such conversations much more quickly.

  There is a pause while we try to think of a way around the problem. I look out of the window at Dobby’s grave. Luna is arranging sea lavender in a jam jar beside the headstone.

  “Okay,” says Ron, and I turn back to face him, “how’s this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault, and then he can have it. There’s a fake in there, isn’t there? We switch them, and give him the fake.”

  “Ron, he’d know the difference better than we would!” says Hermione. “He’s the only one who realized there had been a swap!”

  “Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes —”

  He quails beneath the look Hermione is giving him.

  “That,” she says quietly, “is despicable. Ask for his help then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don’t like wizards, Ron?”

  Ron’s ears have turned red.

  “All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think of! What’s your solution, then?” Ron cries.

  “We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable.” Hermione states.

  “Brilliant. I’ll go and get one of our other ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.” Ron grumbles.

  Silence falls between us again. I am sure that the goblin will accept nothing but the sword, even if we have something as valuable to offer him. Yet the sword is our one, indispensable weapon against the Horcruxes.

  My friends look displeased with the idea that Godric Gryffindor might have stolen the sword. At this rate I’m not entirely sure what to think of anymore, but if a man can murder his entire family for a power that for all he knew could have been a myth and that I am now fairly sure resides in me, I know for a fact that anyone can do anything.

  “Maybe he’s lying,” Harry says, opening his eyes again. “Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn’t take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history’s right?”

  “Does it make a difference?” asks Hermione.

  “Changes how I feel about it,” says Harry.

  He takes a deep breath.

  “We’ll tell him he can have the sword after he’s helped us get into that vault — but we’ll be careful to avoid telling him exactly when he can have it.”

  A grin spreads slowly across Ron’s face. Hermione, however, looks alarmed.

  “Harry, we can’t —”

  “He can have it,” Harry goes on, “after we’ve used it on all of the Horcruxes. I’ll make sure he gets it then. I’ll keep my word.”

  “But that could be years!” says Hermione. I wince at that thought. Years more of running and hiding and fighting back with small victories.

  “I know that, but he needn’t. I won’t be lying . . . really.”

  Harry meets her eyes with a mixture of defiance and shame.

  “I don’t like it,” says Hermione.

  “Nor do I, much,” Harry admits.

  “Unfortunately its our best option.” I say with a sigh.

  “Well, I think its genius,” says Ron, standing up again. “Let’s go and tell him.”

  Back in the smallest bedroom, Harry makes the offer, careful to phrase it so as not to give any definite time for the handover of the sword. Hermione frowns at the floor, and I fidget while he is speaking. However, Griphook has eyes for nobody but Harry.

  “I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?”

  “Yes,” says Harry.

  “Then shake,” says the goblin, holding out his hand.

  Harry takes it and shakes. Then Griphook relinquishes him, claps his hands together, and says, “So. We begin!”

  It is like planning to break into the Ministry all over again. We settle to work in the smallest bedroom, which is kept, according to Griphook’s preference, in semidarkness.

  “I have visited the Black’s vault only once,” Griphook tells us, “on the occasion I was told to place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most ancient chambers. The oldest Wizarding families store their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults are largest and best protected . . .”

  We remain shut in the cupboardlike room for hours at a time. Slowly the days stretch into weeks. There is problem after problem to overcome, not least of which is that our store of Polyjuice Potion is greatly depleted.

  “There’s really only enough left for one of us,” says Hermione, tilting the thick mudlike potion against the lamplight.

  “That’ll be enough,” says Harry, who is examining Griphook’s hand-drawn map of the deepest passageways.

  The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage can hardly fail to notice that something is going on now that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I only emerge for mealtimes. Nobody asks questions, although I often feel Bill’s eyes on the four of us at the table, thoughtful, concerned. It has been nice over the last few days being cared for by my oldest brother. It made me feel safe again, and I’m not sure how I can ever repay him back for that kindness. I know he’s worried about me— about us.

  The longer we spend together, the more I realize that I do not like the goblin. Griphook is unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughs at the idea of pain in lesser creatures, and seems to relish the possibility that we may have to hurt other wizards to reach the Blacks’ vault. I can tell that my distaste is shared by my friends but we do not discuss it: we need Griphook.

  The goblin eats only grudgingly with the rest of us. Even after his legs have mended, he continues to request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail Ollivander, until Bill (following an angry outburst from Fleur) goes upstairs to tell him that the arrangement cannot continue. Thereafter Griphook joins us at the overcrowded table, although he refuses to eat the same food, insisting, instead, on lumps of raw meat, roots, and various fungi.

  I can tell that Harry feels responsible for everything that has happened to our family. From intruding on Bill and Fleur in their home to making it so that everyone else has to go into hiding. It’s not his fault because even if it wasn’t our association with Harry Potter, it would have been because we are blood traitors that would have sent us underground eventually.

  “I’m sorry,” Harry tells Fleur, one blustery April evening as Harry and I help her prepare dinner. “I never meant you to have to deal with all of this.”

  I roll my eyes at his sense of doom. He is always quick to believe that he is at fault for everything. That is probably one of the things that Harry needs to learn, that he is not always the one at fault. Other people can make their own choices and make bad decisions like me, and what I’m going to be doing soon…

  Fleur has just set some knives to work, chopping up steaks for Griphook and Bill, who prefers his meat bloody ever since he has been attacked by Greyback. While the knives slices away behind her, her somewhat irritable expression softens.

  “’Arry, you saved my sister’s life, I do not forget.”

  “Anyway,” Fleur goes on, pointing her wand at a pot of sauce on the stove, which begins to bubble at once, “Mr. Ollivander leaves for Muriel’s zis evening. Zat will make zings easier. Ze goblin,” she scowls a little at the mention of him, “can move downstairs, and you, Ron, and Dean can take zat room.”

  “We don’t mind sleeping in the living room,” says Harry, I know that Griphook will think poorly of having to sleep on the sofa; keeping Griphook happy is essential to our plans. “Don’t worry about us.” And when she tries to protest he goes on, “We’ll be off your hands soon too, Ron, Hermione, Jamie, and I. We won’t need to be here much longer.”

  “But what do you mean?” she says, frowning at us, her wand pointing at the casserole dish now suspended in midair. “Of course you must not leave, you are safe ’ere!”

  She looks rather like Mum much to my heart’s ache as she says it, and I am glad that the back door opens at that moment. Luna and Dean enter, their hair damp from the rain outside and their arms full of driftwood.

  “. . . and tiny little ears,” Luna is saying, “a bit like a hippo’s, Daddy says, only purple and hairy. And if you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a waltz, nothing too fast . . .”

  Looking uncomfortable, Dean shrugs at Harry and me as he passes, following Luna into the combined dining and sitting room where Ron and Hermione are laying the dinner table. Seizing the chance to escape Fleur’s questions, Harry grabs a jug of pumpkin juice, thrusts the other into my hands and we follow them.

  “. . . and if you ever come to our house I’ll be able to show you the horn, Daddy wrote to me about it but I haven’t seen it yet, because the Death Eaters took me from the Hogwarts Express and I never got home for Christmas,” Luna is saying, as she and Dean relay the fire.

  “Luna, we told you,” Hermione calls over to her. “That horn exploded. It came from an Erumpent, not a Crumple-Horned Snorkack —”

  “No, it was definitely a Snorkack horn,” says Luna serenely. “Daddy told me. It will probably have re-formed by now, they mend themselves, you know.”

  Hermione shakes her head and continues laying down forks as Bill appears, leading Mr. Ollivander down the stairs. The wandmaker still looks exceptionally frail, and he clings to Bill’s arm as the latter supports him, carrying a large suitcase.

  “I’m going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander,” says Luna, approaching the old man.

  “And I you, my dear,” says Ollivander, patting her on the shoulder. “You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that terrible place.”

  “So, au revoir, Mr. Ollivander,” says Fleur, kissing him on both cheeks. “And I wonder whezzer you could oblige me by delivering a package to Bill’s Auntie Muriel? I never returned ’er tiara.”

  “It will be an honor,” says Ollivander with a little bow, “the very least I can do in return for your generous hospitality.”

  Fleur draws out a worn velvet case, which she opens to show the wandmaker. The tiara sits glittering and twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp.

  “Moonstones and diamonds,” says Griphook, who has sidled into the room without me noticing. “Made by goblins, I think?”

  “And paid for by wizards,” says Bill quietly, and the goblin shoots him a look that is both furtive and challenging.

  A strong wind gusts against the cottage windows as Bill and Ollivander set off into the night. The rest of us squeezed in around the table; elbow to elbow and with barely enough room to move, we start to eat. The fire crackles and pops in the grate beside us. Fleur, I notice, is merely playing with her food; she glances at the window every few minutes; however, Bill returns before we have finished our first course, his long hair tangled by the wind.

  “Everything’s fine,” he tells Fleur. “Ollivander settled in, Mum and Dad say hello. Ginny sends you all her love. Luka says to hang in there. Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall they’re still operating an Owl-Order business out of her back room. It cheered her up to have her tiara back, though. She said she thought we’d stolen it.”

  “Ah, she eez charmante, your aunt,” says Fleur crossly, waving her wand and causing the dirty plates to rise and form a stack in midair. She catches them and marches out of the room.

  “Daddy’s made a tiara,” pipes up Luna. “Well, more of a crown, really.”

  Ron, and I catch Harry’s eye and grin; I knew that we are remembering the ludicrous headdress we saw on our visit to Xenophilius.

  “Yes, he’s trying to re-create the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. He thinks he’s identified most of the main elements now. Adding the billywig wings really made a difference —”

  There is a bang on the front door. Everyone’s head turns towards it. Fleur comes running out of the kitchen, looking frightened; Bill jumps to his feet, his wand pointing at the door; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I do the same. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest, that it feels ready to rip out of my ribcage. Silently Griphook slips beneath the table, out of sight.

  “Who is it?” Bill calls.

  “It is I, Remus John Lupin!” calls a voice over the howling wind. I was not expecting to hear that voice. “I am a werewolf, married to Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come in an emergency!”

  “Lupin,” mutters Bill, and he runs to the door and wrenches it open.

  Lupin falls over the threshold. He is white-faced, wrapped in a traveling cloak, his graying hair windswept. He straightens up, looks around the room, making sure of who is there, then cries aloud, “It’s a boy! We’ve named him Ted, after Dora’s father!”

  Hermione shrieks.

  “Wha — ? Tonks — Tonks has had the baby?”

  “Yes, yes, she’s had the baby!” shouts Lupin. For the first time in a long while joy spreads through me. All around the table come cries of delight, sighs of relief: Hermione and Fleur both squeal, “Congratulations!” and Ron says, “Blimey, a baby!” as if he has never heard of such a thing before.

  “Yes — yes — a boy,” says Lupin again, who seems dazed by his own happiness. He strides around the table and hugs Harry; the scene in the basement of Grimmauld Place may never have happened.

  “You’ll be godfather?” he says as he releases Harry.

  “M-me?” stammers Harry.

  “You, yes, of course — Dora quite agrees, no one better —”

  “I — yeah — blimey —”

  Bill is hurrying to fetch wine, and Fleur is persuading Lupin to join us for a drink.

  “I can’t stay long, I must get back,” says Lupin, beaming around at us all: He looks years younger than I have ever seen him. “Thank you, thank you, Bill.”

  Bill has soon filled all of our goblets we stand and raise them high in a toast.

  “To Teddy Remus Lupin,” says Lupin, “a great wizard in the making!”

  “’Oo does ’e look like?” Fleur inquires.

  “I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like me. Not much hair. It looked black when he was born, but I swear it’s turned ginger in the hour since. Probably be blond by the time I get back. Andromeda says Tonks’s hair started changing color the day that she was born.” He drains his goblet. “Oh, go on then, just one more,” he adds, beaming, as Bill makes to fill it again.

  The wind buffets the little cottage and the fire leaps and crackles, and Bill is soon opening another bottle of wine. Lupin’s news seems to have taken us out of ourselves, removed us for a while from our state of siege: Tidings of new life are exhilarating. Only the goblin seems untouched by the suddenly festive atmosphere, and after a while he slinks back to the bedroom he now occupies alone. I thought I am the only one who has noticed this, until I see Bill’s and Harry’s eyes following the goblin up the stairs.

  “No . . . no . . . I really must get back,” says Lupin at last, declining yet another goblet of wine. He gets to his feet and pulls his traveling cloak back around himself.

“Good-bye, good-bye — I’ll try and bring some pictures in a few days’ time — they’ll all be so glad to know that I’ve seen you —” 

  He fastens his cloak and makes his farewells, hugging the women and grasping hands with the men, then, still beaming, returns into the wild night.

  It was a great way to end the night, though I did notice that Bill and Harry disappeared from the good tidings in the sitting room for a while and when they returned, both of them had a very solemn look on their faces. Even though my spirits were higher than they had been in a long time, dark images still push at the corners of my mind begging entry so that they can be seen.

  I grasp my necklace, reassured by the soft warmth that is coming from it that my love is okay. After all the reassurances that my family is okay, there is only one person that I have to really worry about and that is the Hufflepuff girl with more guts and brains than any Gryffindor and Ravenclaw combined in my opinion.


	19. Gringotts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 19- Gringotts

 

  Our plans are made, our preparations complete; in the smallest bedroom a single long, coarse black hair (plucked from the sweater Hermione was wearing at Malfoy Manor) lays curled in a small glass phial on the mantelpiece.

  “And you’ll be using her actual wand,” says Harry, nodding towards the walnut wand, “so I reckon you’ll be pretty convincing.”

  Hermione looks frightened that the wand may sting or bite her as she picks it up.

  “I hate this thing,” she says in a low voice. “I really hate it. It feels all wrong, it doesn’t work properly for me . . . It’s like a bit of her.”

  “It’ll probably help you get in character, though,” says Ron. “Think what that wand’s done!”

  “But that’s my point!” says Hermione. “This is the wand that tortured Neville’s mum and dad, and who knows how many other people? This is the wand that killed Sirius!”

  I shudder at the thought. I don’t envy Hermione one bit. She also seems to leave out that that wand— tortured her as well.

  “I miss my wand,” Hermione says miserably. “I wish Mr. Ollivander could have made me another one too.”

  Mr. Ollivander has sent Luna a new wand that morning. She is out on the back lawn at that moment, testing its capabilities in the late afternoon sun. Dean, who has lost his wand to the Snatchers, is watching rather gloomily. I don’t know how it was done but Harry and Ron were able to recover my wand in the Manor, and now it is safely in my pocket where I drum my fingers over it.

  I still replay the little fantasy in my head imagining Harry physically punch my Uncle to get me away from him, and take my wand back. He had it like it was some sick little souvenir for him.

   The door of the bedroom opens and Griphook enters. Harry says, “We’ve just been checking the last-minute stuff, Griphook. We’ve told Bill and Fleur we’re leaving tomorrow, and we’ve told them not to get up to see us off.”

  We were firm on this point, because Hermione will need to transform into Bellatrix before we leave, and the less that Bill and Fleur know or suspect about what we are about to do, the better. We have also explained that we will not be returning. As we lost Perkins’s old tent on the night that the Snatchers caught us, Bill has lent us another one. It is now packed inside the beaded bag, which, I am impressed to learn, Hermione protected from the Snatchers by the simple expedient of stuffing it down her sock.

  The only part of the plan that seems to be the least clear is how exactly we are going to get away from Griphook in Gringotts with the sword. Whenever we try to plan, his long fingers are always seen curved around the wall near us, or somewhere close listening in as we talk. He really has no trust in us and for good reason I must add.

  Hermione is so offended at the idea of a double cross with the fulfillment of the promise later on that she refuses to even give ideas. I have no good ones for I am not sure we are even going to get out of Gringotts alive.

  That night I hardly sleep a wink. That has been the common theme for me these past few days, but at least then I could get some sleep by being physically near Hermione. Now that’s not even helping, and I am just staring at the ceiling while clutching my necklace, watching the sky grow brighter as dawn comes. There is a low roiling nervous excitement in me.

  It was been like a dream being here at Shell Cottage and not having to be an adult anymore and actually being taken care of. I know that this dream has to come to an end soon, because even after everything that has happened— we need to keep going. This isn’t just about us; this is about everyone in the Wizarding World. That is a weight that is too large to just ignore.

  It is a relief when six o’clock arrives and I can slip out of bed dress in the semidarkness then creep out into the garden, where I am to meet Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Griphook. The boys join me shortly, and the three of us stand there anxiously. The dawn is chilly, but there is little wind now that it is May. I look up at the stars still glimmering palely in the dark sky and listen to the sea washing backwards and forwards against the cliff: I am going to miss the sound.

  Small green shoots are forcing their way up through the red earth of Dobby’s grave now; in a year’s time the mound will be covered in flowers. The white stone that bears the elf’s name has already acquired a weathered look.

  The sound of a door opening makes me look around.

  Bellatrix Black is striding across the lawn towards us, accompanied by Griphook. As she walks, she is tucking the small, beaded bag into the inside pocket of another set of the old robes we took from Grimmauld Place. Though I know perfectly well that it is really Hermione, I cannot suppress a shiver of fear. I look around almost expecting Augustus to show up at any second. She is taller than I am, her long black hair rippling down her back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rest upon me; but then she speaks, and I hear Hermione through Bellatrix’s low voice.

  “She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay, Ron, come here so I can do you . . .”

  “Right, but remember, I don’t like the beard too long —”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking handsome —”

  “It’s not that, it gets in the way! But I liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you did last time.”

  Hermione sighs and sets to work, muttering under her breath as she transforms various aspects of Ron’s appearance. He is to given a completely fake identity, and we are trusting to the malevolent aura cast by Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile Harry and Griphook are to be concealed under the Invisibility Cloak. I unfortunately am back in the same position at the Ministry I am to become a broach on Bellatrix Black.

  “There,” says Hermione, “how does he look, Harry, Jamie?”

  It is just possible to discern Ron under his disguise, but only because I know him so well. Ron’s hair is now long and wavy; he has a thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows.

  “Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” says Harry. Hermione quickly turns to me, not giving me a chance to protest and transfigures me back into a broach, before I can protest. The tiny, cramped, and foggy vision are all things I could have done without.

  “Shall we go, then?” Harry asks.

  All of us (me in broach form) glance back at Shell Cottage, lying dark and silent under the fading stars, then turn and begin to walk towards the point, just beyond the boundary wall, where the Fidelius Charm stops working and we will be able to Disapparate. Once past the gate, Griphook speaks.

  “I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?”

  I can vaguely see Harry bend down and the goblin clamber onto his back, his hands linked in front of Harry’s throat.

  Hermione pulls the Invisibility Cloak out of the beaded bag and throws it over them both.

  “Perfect,” she says, bending down to check Harry’s feet (and jar me). “I can’t see a thing. Let’s go.”

  She turns on the spot I know concentrating on the Leaky Cauldron, the inn that is the entrance to Diagon Alley.

   We appear at Charing Cross Road. Muggles bustle past wearing the hangdog expressions of early morning, quite unconscious of the little inn’s existence.

  The bar of the Leaky Cauldron is nearly deserted. Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, is polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far corner glance at Hermione and draw back into the shadows.

  “Madam Black,” murmurs Tom, and as Hermione passes he inclines his head subserviently.

  “Good morning,” says Hermione. I almost want to smack myself (if I could for Hermione is entirely out of character).

  “Too polite,” Harry whispers in Hermione’s ear and I can hear as we pass out of the inn into the tiny backyard. “You need to treat people like they’re scum!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  Hermione draws out Bellatrix’s wand and taps a brick in the nondescript wall in front of us. At once the bricks begin to whirl and spin: A hole appears in the middle of us, which grows wider and wider, finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled street that is Diagon Alley.

  It is quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and there are hardly any shoppers abroad. The crooked, cobbled street is much altered now from the bustling place I visited before my first term at Hogwarts so many years before. More shops than ever are boarded up, though several new establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts have been created since my last visit. Harry’s own face glare down at us from posters plastered over many windows, always captioned with the words UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE.

 To say the least it’s a dizzying experience for me.

  A number of ragged people sit huddled in doorways. I can hear them moaning to the few passersby, pleading for gold, insisting that they are really wizards. One man has a bloody bandage over his eye.

  As we set off along the street, the beggars glimpse Hermione. They seem to melt away before her, drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as they can.   Hermione looks after them curiously, until the man with the bloodied bandage comes staggering right across her path.

  “My children!” he bellows, pointing at her. His voice is cracked, high-pitched; he sounds distraught. “Where are my children? What has he done with them? You know, you know!”

  “I — I really —” stammers Hermione.

  The man lunges at her, reaching for her throat: Then, with a bang and a burst of red light he is thrown backwards onto the ground, unconscious. Ron stands there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock visible behind his beard. Faces appear at the windows on either side of the street, while a little knot of prosperous-looking passersby gather their robes about them and break into gentle trots, keen to vacate the scene.

  Our entrance into Diagon Alley can hardly have been more conspicuous; for a moment I wondered whether it might not be better to leave now and try to think of a different plan. Before we can move or consult one another, however, we hear a cry from behind us.

  “Why, Madam Black!”

  Hermione whirls around and my stomach turns and my vision blurs before focusing again: A tall, thin wizard with a crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose is striding towards us.

  “It’s Travers,” hisses the goblin to Harry, but I am close enough to overhear them. Hermione has drawn herself up to her fullest height and says with as much contempt as she can muster:

  “And what do you want?”

  Travers stops in his tracks, clearly affronted.

  “He’s another Death Eater!” breathes Griphook, and Harry sidles sideways to repeat the information into Hermione’s ear.

  “I merely sought to greet you,” says Travers coolly, “but if my presence is not welcome . . .”

  I recognized his voice now; Travers is one of the Death Eaters who was summoned to Xenophilius’s house.

  “No, no, not at all, Travers,” says Hermione quickly, trying to cover up her mistake. “How are you?”

  “Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix.”

  “Really? Why?” asks Hermione.

  “Well,” Travers coughs, “I heard that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the . . . ah . . . escape.”

  Okay we can’t panic here. We can’t panic, okay I’m panicking but I don’t have a body so I think I’m allowed at least this one little thing!

  “The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past,” says Hermione in a magnificent imitation of Bellatrix’s most contemptuous manner. “Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine is, Travers.”

  Though the Death Eater looks offended, he also seems less suspicious. He glances down at the man Ron has just Stunned.

  “How did it offend you?”

  “It does not matter, it will not do so again,” says Hermione coolly.

  “Some of these wandless can be troublesome,” says Travers. “While they do nothing but beg I have no objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead her case at the Ministry last week. ‘I’m a witch, sir, I’m a witch, let me prove it to you!’” he says in a squeaky impersonation. “As if I was going to give her my wand — but whose wand,” says Travers curiously, “are you using at the moment, Bellatrix? I heard that your own was —”

  “I have my wand here,” says Hermione coldly, holding up Bellatrix’s wand. “I don’t know what rumors you have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly misinformed.”

  Travers seems a little taken aback at that, and he turns instead to Ron.

  “Who is your friend? I do not recognize him.”

  “This is Dragomir Despard,” says Hermione; we decided that a fictional foreigner is the safest cover for Ron to assume. “He speaks very little English, but he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord’s aims. He has traveled here from Transylvania to see our new regime.”

  “Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?”

  “’Ow you?” says Ron, holding out his hand.

  Travers extends two fingers and shakes Ron’s hand as though frightened of dirtying himself.

  “So what brings you and your — ah — sympathetic friend to Diagon Alley this early?” asks Travers.

  “I need to visit Gringotts,” says Hermione.

  “Alas, I also,” says Travers. “Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends.”

  “Shall we?” says Travers, gesturing Hermione forward.

  Hermione has no choice but to fall into step beside him and head along the crooked, cobbled street towards the place where the snowy-white Gringotts stands towering over the other little shops. Ron slopes along beside us I think, and hopefully Harry and Griphook follow.

  I am tempted to close my eyes for the duration of the walk since the jumbled blurred view is not to be enjoyed, but I don’t. Even without a body, I should be vigilant for danger.

  All too soon we arrive at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze doors. As Griphook has already warned us, the liveried goblins whom usually flank the entrance have been replaced by two wizards both of whom are clutching long thin golden rods.

  “Ah, Probity Probes,” sighs Travers theatrically, “so crude — but effective!”

  And he sets off up the steps, nodding left and right to the wizards, who raise the golden rods and pass them up and down his body. The Probes, I know, detect spells of concealment and hidden magical objects. Unnoticed by Travers, who is looking through the bronze doors at the inner hall, each of the guards give a little start as what I am sure are spells from Harry hit them.

  Hermione’s long black hair ripples behind her as she climbs the steps.

  “One moment, madam,” says the guard, raising his Probe.

  “But you’ve just done that!” says Hermione in Bellatrix’s commanding, arrogant voice. Travers looks around, eyebrows raised. The guard is confused. He stares down at the thin golden Probe and then at his companion, who says in a slightly dazed voice,

  “Yeah, you’ve just checked them, Marius.”

  Hermione sweeps forward, Ron by her side, Harry and Griphook trotting invisibly behind them.

  Two goblins stand before the inner doors, which are made of silver and which carry the poem warning of dire retribution to potential thieves. But soon enough we are standing in the vast marble hall of the bank.

  The long counter is manned by goblins sitting on high stools, serving the first customers of the day. Hermione, Ron, and Travers head toward an old goblin who is examining a thick gold coin through an eyeglass. Hermione allows Travers to step ahead of her on the pretext of explaining features of the hall to Ron.

  The goblin tosses the coin he is holding aside, says to nobody in particular, “Leprechaun,” and then greets Travers, who passes over a tiny golden key, which is examined and given back to him.

  Hermione steps forward.

  “Madam Black!” says the goblin, evidently startled. “Dear me! How — how may I help you today?”

  “I wish to enter my vault,” says Hermione. 

  The old goblin seems to recoil a little.

  “You have . . . identification?” asks the goblin.

  “Identification? I — I have never been asked for identification before!” says Hermione.

  “Your wand will do, madam,” says the goblin. He holds out a slightly trembling hand, and in a dreadful blast of realization I know that the goblins of Gringotts are aware that Bellatrix’s wand has been stolen.

  The goblin takes Bellatrix’s wand, examines it closely, and then says, “Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Black!” I sign in relief that Harry has used Imperio on the teller.

  “What?” says Hermione. “No, no, that’s mine —”

  “A new wand?” says Travers, approaching the counter again; still the goblins all around are watching. “But how could you have done, which wandmaker did you use?”

  “Oh yes, I see,” says Travers, looking down at Bellatrix’s wand, “yes, very handsome. And is it working well? I always think wands require a little breaking in, don’t you?” Thank Merlin Harry is here and hidden or we would have been dead many times over at this point.

  Thankfully Hermione accepts what is going on without comment, since I would be of no help in a fight now.

  The old goblin behind the counter claps his hands and a younger goblin approaches.

  “I shall need the Clankers,” he tells the goblin, who dashes away and returns a moment later with a leather bag that seems to be full of jangling metal, which he hands to his senior. “Good, good! So, if you will follow me, Madam Black,” says the old goblin, hopping down off his stool and vanishing from sight, “I shall take you to your vault.”

  He appears around the end of the counter, jogging happily towards us, the contents of the leather bag still jingling. Travers is now standing quite still with his mouth hanging wide open. Ron is drawing attention to this odd phenomenon by regarding Travers with confusion.

  “Wait — Bogrod!”

  Another goblin comes scurrying around the counter.

  “We have instructions,” he says with a bow to Hermione. “Forgive me, Madam, but there have been special orders regarding the vault of Black.”

  He whispers urgently in Bogrod’s ear, but the Imperiused goblin shakes him off.

  “I am aware of the instructions. Madam Black wishes to visit her vault . . . Very old family . . . old clients . . . This way, please . . .”

  And, still clanking, he hurries towards one of the many doors leading off the hall. We reach the door and pass into the rough stone passageway beyond, which is lit with flaming torches.

  “We’re in trouble; they suspect,” says Harry as the door slams behind us and he pulls off the Invisibility Cloak. Griphook jump down from his shoulders; neither Travers nor Bogrod show the slightest surprise at the sudden appearance of Harry Potter in their midst. “They’re Imperiused,” he adds, in response to Hermione and Ron’s confused queries about Travers and Bogrod, who are both now standing there looking blank. “I don’t think I did it strongly enough, I don’t know . . .”

  “What do we do?” asks Ron. “Shall we get out now, while we can?”

  “If we can,” says Hermione, looking back towards the door into the main hall, beyond which who knows what is happening.

  “We’ve got this far, I say we go on,” says Harry.

  “Good!” says Griphook. “So, we need Bogrod to control the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will not be room for the wizard.”

  Harry points his wand at Travers.

  “Imperio!”

  The wizard turns and sets off along the dark track at a smart pace. I guess that I am not going to be getting my body back any time soon.

  “What are you making him do?”

  “Hide,” says Harry as he pointed his wand at Bogrod, who whistles to summon a little cart that comes trundling along the tracks towards us out of the darkness. I am sure I can hear shouting behind us in the main hall as we all clamber into it, Bogrod in front with Griphook, Harry, Ron, and Hermione crammed together in the back. At least I don’t have to be squished.

  With a jerk the cart moves off, gathering speed: We hurtle past Travers, who is wriggling into a crack in the wall, then the cart begins twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downwards all the time. I cannot hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the tracks.

  We are going deeper into Gringotts close to where my family vault is; we take a hairpin bend at speed and see ahead of us, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track. I hear Griphook shout, “No!” but there is no braking: We zoom through it. Suddenly and slightly painfully I am no longer a broach the size of a galleon, but human again: Then, with an awful lurch, the cart flips over and we are all thrown out of it. I hear the cart smash into pieces against the passage wall, hear Hermione shriek something, and feel myself glide back towards the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly on the rocky passage floor.

  “C-Cushioning Charm,” Hermione splutters, as Ron pulls her to her feet, but to my horror I see that she is no longer Bellatrix; instead she stands there in overlarge robes, sopping wet and completely herself; Ron is red-haired and beardless again. Even I am in my body, as I clamber to my own feet shakily.

  “The Thief’s Downfall!” says Griphook, clambering to his feet and looking back at the deluge onto the tracks, which, I know now, is water. “It washes away all enchantment, all magical concealment! They know there are impostors in Gringotts, they have set off defenses against us!”

  I see Hermione checking that she still has the beaded bag, and Harry check that he still has the Invisibility Cloak. Then I turn to see Bogrod shaking his head in bewilderment: The Thief’s Downfall seems to have lifted the Imperius Curse.

  “We need him,” says Griphook, “we cannot enter the vault without a Gringotts goblin. And we need the Clankers!”

  “Imperio!” Harry says again. Bogrod submits once more to his will, his befuddled expression changing to one of polite indifference, as Ron hurries to pick up the leather bag of metal tools.

  “Harry, I think I can hear people coming!” says Hermione, and she points Bellatrix’s wand at the waterfall and cries, “Protego!” We see the Shield Charm break the flow of enchanted water as it flies up the passageway.

  “Good thinking,” says Harry. “Lead the way, Griphook!”

  “How are we going to get out again?” Ron asks as we hurry on foot into the darkness after the goblin, Bogrod panting in our wake like an old dog.

  “Yes, I would like to know the answer to that.” I say my teeth chattering slightly as the cold of the cave settles over me fully.

  “Let’s worry about that when we have to,” says Harry. I think there is the sound of clanking nearby. “Griphook, how much farther?”

  “Not far, Harry Potter, not far . . .”

  And we turn a corner and see the thing for which I was prepared, but which still brings all of us to a halt.

  A gigantic dragon is tethered to the ground in front of us, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast’s scales have turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground; its eyes are milkily pink; both rear legs bear heavy cuffs from which chains lead to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the chamber if it spread them, and when it turns its ugly head towards us, it roars with a noise that makes the rock tremble, open its mouth, and spits a jet of fire that sends us running back up the passageway.

  “It is partially blind,” pants Griphook, “but even more savage for that. However, we have the means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the Clankers come. Give them to me.”

  Before we can do anything more though, I stop them all with my interjection. “You lot go to the vault. I need to make a stop at mine. I will meet you all back here in a few minutes, there’s something I need!” I cry, determined to get what has been plaguing my mind recently.

  I turn the other direction back towards where my vault is prepared to make the most of my time. I get no more than a few steps away before someone is catching me by the arm, and swinging me back to face them. It’s Ron, and he’s looking at me with a worried expression on his face.

  “No one is going anywhere alone in here. I’m coming with you.” He says, and after a second I nod my head. I lead us back a little ways to one of the more out of the way vaults, mine is not the deepest into the cave, but it is definitely one of the more secluded ones.

  The ornate door is the same as I remembered it, though there are now some scratches along the sides of the door, like someone had tried to pry it open by force, and judging by the char marks along the sides of the wall around it, they also tried to blow it open by spell.

  The carved dragon on the front of the vault door is as austere and fierce as it has been since the last time I was in Gringotts. I quickly stick in my key, and place my left hand against the door, watching in relief as the dragon lights up a brilliant red before slowly rumbling open.

  Again I feel a little self conscious at showing my brother this vault. I may be a Weasley legally but my blood holds the prestige and history of Pendragon, and that is something that will always set us apart slightly, though I don’t want it to. When the door opens I quickly step inside, dragging Ron along with me.

  I find myself staring at Arthur’s armor a little more than I usually would. How did Arthur once a normal muggle become used to being endowed with magical powers, especially a magical power that was directly physically linked to him? I watch as Ron ventures towards the ornate thrown that was Arthur’s and see him delicately trace the crown lying atop the pillow.

  “So… what exactly are you looking for here? Are you looking for gold? I think we still have some of that lying around if we need…” Ron says trailing off, though his eyes look the size of saucers.

  I glance around the room ignoring the priceless artworks and small piles of jewels. There is one thing that I’m looking for specifically. It takes a moment but then I see it. In the back behind an ornate mirror, sticks out the shiny pommel of a sword. I quickly make my way over to the mirror and attempt to move the heavy piece of furniture.

  “Ron, come here and help me with this!” I call. A few hurried footsteps later Ron is at my side, helping me lift the heavy mirror a few feet to the side. By the time we set it down again, we are both panting from the exertion.

  “What the bloody hell is so important that we had to—” Ron stops with a little strangled sound.

  I am awed to silence. I wasn’t sure if my idea was going to be right, but a part of me feels vindicated that it is real. There is a sword literally impaled into the ground of the vault, straight into the rock flooring of the cave. The blade is made of a shining silver steel, with intricate patterns etched into the blade. On the swords hilt, is a small dragon.

  “I-is that…” Ron says not even able to finish his sentence he is so shocked.

  “Excalibur… yeah… I believe so.” I say swallowing, even though my throat is dry.

  “Y-you’re not going to—” Ron practically squeaks. I glance over at my brother and see that his face is pale, but there is an excited gleam in his eyes.

  “Something that Augustus said to me stuck out. He said that it was in our blood— that the ability to control this power that was given to Arthur would be passed down in the family line. The book Dumbledore left me… it explained that the person had to be chosen— to be worthy.” I say softly keeping my gaze on the legendary blade that only let Arthur pull it from the stone.

  “You think that you can do it?” Ron says sounding half thrilled and half nervous. I flash him a small smile, thankful that he is actually here since this whole thing would be impossible to overwhelming to me.

  “I’m sure going to try.” I say and approach the sword. If what the book— the journal says is true, then the sword judges the character of the person attempting to wield it, it can sense all of the things you have done in the past, and probably has a good sense of your future too.

  I can feel my palms beginning to sweat. I come to a stop right at the pommel. I glance up and catch Ron’s eye. He gives me an encouraging smile, and makes motions for me to hurry up and try it already. Letting go a shaky breath, I reach my hands out, and firmly grasp the sword.

  The metal is cool to the touch, but after a moment it warms to my hands. I widen my stance a little and tighten my grip. This isn’t going to work. There’s no way that I am the one that Excalibur will allow to wield it. I am just a normal girl— well I guess as normal as a girl-loving witch can be. I am also the first and only female descendant of the Pendragons as well.

  Wouldn’t the sword and the righteous fury choose a male heir? How am I ever going to be able to get Luka back here? These thoughts race in my head so fast, that I don’t even realize that the sword gives way after a small tug, and the only sound coming from the room is the slight scraping of rock against blade.

  Before I know it, I am holding up the most legendary blade in the Wizarding world. I Jamie Alexis Pendragon am holding Excalibur— after pulling it from the stone like it was butter. There is a gasp from Ron and I see that his eyes have frown even wider than saucers now.

  “J-Jamie… E-Excalibur!” He stutters almost not being able to contain himself. I blink a few times, shock coursing through my system enough to stun me for a few seconds. 

  “I-I’m Arthur’s heir?” I say though I’m pretty sure that I don’t sound so certain. This power that Augustus wants, resides inside me, and the legendary sword that every one of my family members had tried to pull out of the stone before me has yielded to allow me to wield it?

  “This is like some crazy dream.” I mutter, running my fingers along the crazily shiny and sharp blade.

  “More like an awesome one…” Ron says coming to stand next to me. He reaches out to touch the blade but then draws his hand away, afraid to touch it.

  I snap out of my daze realizing that we shouldn’t be lingering here. We need to get back to Harry and Hermione and help with looking for the Cup. I quickly find a sheath for the sword and slide it in, before slinging it comfortably over my back.   “Come on, we have to get back to the others.” I say urgently ushering a still slightly dumbfounded Ron out of the vault. Once the door is closed I place my palm back to the door and the dragon flashes a deeper color of red almost like it acknowledges that the sword has been removed rightfully from its presence.

  Ron and I hurry back down the corridors at a run as we can here the sounds and yells of people fighting, and of spells being cast and exploding. When we emerge into the central room where the dragon is again I see that Harry and Hermione are a few feet away covered in lots of angry red welts that look like burns on them, but clutched in one of Harry’s hands is a small cup that looks an awful lot like the Hufflepuff Cup.

  Ron and I quickly send Stun jinxes and throw up shields as we make it to Harry and Hermione’s side.

  “Thought you weren’t going to make it!” Harry yells as he casts another jinx managing to hit a wizard.

  “We’re here now! Let’s go!” Ron shoots back.

  The tethered dragon lets out a roar, and a gush of flame flies over the goblins: The wizards flee, doubled-up, back the way they came, and Harry seems to get an idea. Pointing his wand at the thick cuffs chaining the beast to the floor, he yells, “Relashio!”

  The cuffs break open with loud bangs.

  “This way!” Harry yells, and still shooting Stunning Spells at the advancing goblins, he sprints towards the blind dragon. Not going to second guess Harry or myself now I sprint after him.

  “Harry — Harry — what are you doing?” cries Hermione.

  “Get up, climb up, come on —”

  The dragon has not realized that it is free: Harry’s foot finds the crook of its hind leg and he pulls himself up onto its back. The scales are hard as steel; it does not even seem to feel him. He stretches out an arm; Hermione hoists herself up; Ron helps me up next, then Ron climbs on behind us, and a second later the dragon becomes aware that it is untethered.

  Are we really about to do what I think we’re going to do? Are we seriously going to ride a dragon? Merlin Hagrid would be jealous of us right now…

  With a roar the dragon rears: I dig in my knees, clutching as tightly as I can to the jagged scales as the wings open, knocking the shrieking goblins aside like skittles, and it soars into the air. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, flat on its back, scrape against the ceiling as it dives toward the passage opening, while the pursuing goblins hurl daggers that glance off its flanks.

  “We’ll never get out, it’s too big!” Hermione screams, but the dragon opens its mouth and belches flame again, blasting the tunnel, whose floors and ceiling crack and crumbled. By sheer force the dragon claws and fights its way through. This is probably one of the single most exciting and terrifying things I’ve ever done in my life. My eyes are shut tight against the heat and dust: Deafened by the crashing of rock and the dragon’s roars, I can only cling to its back, expecting to be shaken off at any moment; then I hear Hermione yelling, “Defodio!”

  She is helping the dragon enlarge the passageway, carving out the ceiling as it struggles upwards toward the fresher air, away from the shrieking and clanking goblins: Harry, Ron, and I copy her, blasting the ceiling apart with more gouging spells. We pass the underground lake, and the great crawling, snarling beast seems to sense freedom and space ahead of it, and behind us the passage is full of the dragon’s thrashing, spiked tail, of great lumps of rock, gigantic fractured stalactites, and the clanking of the goblins seem to be growing more muffled, while ahead, the dragon’s fire keeps our progress clear —

  And then at last, by the combined force of our spells and the dragon’s brute strength, we have blasted our way out of the passage into the marble hallway.   Goblins and wizards shriek and run for cover, and finally the dragon has room to stretch its wings: Turning its horned head towards the cool outside air it can smell beyond the entrance, it takes off, and with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I still clinging to its back, it forces its way through the metal doors, leaving them buckled and hanging from their hinges, as it staggers into Diagon Alley and launches itself into the sky.

  Honestly even half petrified, this is probably the freest I have felt in a long time, emerging from the dark oppressiveness of the bank to the fresh sky above.

 

* * *

 

 

  There is no means of steering; the dragon cannot see where it is going, and I know that if it turns sharply or rolls in midair we will find it impossible to cling onto its broad back. Nevertheless, as we climb higher and higher, London unfurling below us like a gray-and-green map, my overwhelming feeling is of gratitude for an escape that seemed impossible. Crouching low over the beast’s back and close to Hermione, I cling tightly to the metallic scales, and the cool breeze is soothing, the dragon’s wings beating the air like the sails of a windmill. Behind me, whether from delight or fear I cannot not tell, Ron keeps swearing at the top of his voice and in front of me Hermione seems to be sobbing.

  I am having this half manic half terrified state, where my emotions are warring so much, that its like I have shut down. After what happened at the— Manor and then finding out that I am Arthur’s true heir, to riding a flying dragon… I’m very overwhelmed. My main thought is of not dying in a gruesome way that will very much likely hurt a lot and make my family and girlfriend depressed.

  After five minutes or so, I lose some of my immediate dread that the dragon is going to throw us off, for it seems intent on nothing but getting as far away from its underground prison as possible; but the question of how and when we are to dismount remains rather frightening. I have no idea how long dragons can fly without landing, nor how this particular dragon, which can barely see, will locate a good place to put down.

  The dragon seems to crave cooler and fresher air: It climbs steadily until we are flying through wisps of chilly cloud, and I can no longer make out the little colored dots which are cars pouring in and out of the capital. On and on we fly, over countryside parceled out in patches of green and brown, over roads and rivers winding through the landscape like strips of matte and glossy ribbon.

  “What do you reckon it’s looking for?” Ron yells as we fly farther and farther north.

  “No idea,” Harry bellows back. My hands are numb with cold but I do not dare attempt to shift my grip.

  The sun slips lower in the sky, which is turning indigo; and still the dragon flies cities and towns gliding out of sight beneath us, its enormous shadow sliding over the earth like a great dark cloud. Every part of me aches with the effort of holding on to the dragon’s back.

  “Is it my imagination,” shouts Ron after a considerable stretch of silence, “or are we losing height?”

  I look down and see deep green mountains and lakes, coppery in the sunset. The landscape seems to grow larger and more detailed as we squint over the side of the dragon, and I wonder whether it has divined the presence of fresh water by the flashes of reflected sunlight.

  Lower and lower the dragon flies in great spiraling circles, honing in, it seems, upon one of the smaller lakes.

  “I say we jump when it gets low enough!” Harry calls back to us. “Straight into the water before it realizes we’re here!”

  We agree, Hermione a little faintly, and now I can see the dragon’s wide yellow underbelly rippling in the surface of the water.

  “NOW!” Harry yells.

  I slither over the side of the dragon and plummet feet first towards the surface of the lake; the drop is greater than I thought and I hit the water hard, plunging like a stone into a freezing, green, reed-filled world. Shocked I kick towards the surface and emerge, panting, to see enormous ripples emanating in circles from the places where Ron, Hermione, and Harry have fallen. Harry is the only other one besides me on the surface.

  The dragon does not seem to have noticed anything: It is already fifty feet away, swooping low over the lake to scoop up water in its scarred snout. As Ron and Hermione emerge, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of the lake, the dragon flies on, its wings beating hard, and lands at last on a distant bank.

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I strike out for the opposite shore. The lake does not seem to be deep: Soon it is more a question of fighting our way through reeds and mud than swimming, and at last we flop, sodden, panting, and exhausted, onto slippery grass.

  “Well… that… is definitely… one experience… I don’t want to take again.” I pant trying to catch my breath, relieved when I feel Excalibur still on my back.

  Hermione collapses, coughing and shuddering. Harry staggers to his feet, draws out his wand, and starts casting the usual protective spells around us.

  When he finishes, he joins us. It is the first time that we have all seen each other properly since the vault. Both Harry and Hermione have angry red burns all over their faces and arms, and their clothing is singed away in places. They are wincing as they dabbed essence of dittany onto their many injuries. Hermione pulls out four bottles of pumpkin juice she has brought from Shell Cottage and clean, dry robes for all of us. We change and then gulp down the juice.

  Harry and Hermione recount the experience in the Black vault with the items having Gemino and Flagrante curses on them so that the items multiplied on touch and buring the person touching it. They also described the double cross by Griphook and how he stole the sword of Gryffindor from them.

  I give Harry and Hermione an explanation for going to my vault, with Ron adding in exciting details here and there. Both Hermione and Harry are shocked and confused about how I am the heir of Arthur. After explaining it all and letting everyone look at Excalibur, Harry demands that I try and break the Hufflepuff Cup.

  Slightly nervous I set myself up to strike a deadly blow, and be ready to face the backlash from the dying part of soul, but Excalibur sadly does nothing more than bounce off the cup. With an apologetic sigh I explain that Excalibur isn’t really enchanted that way. Luckily the rest of them aren’t too disappointed in this.

  “Well, on the upside,” says Ron finally, “we got the Horcrux. On the downside —”

  “— no sword,” says Harry through gritted teeth, as he drips dittany through the singed hole in his jeans onto the angry burn beneath.

  “No sword, except Excalibur,” repeats Ron. “That double-crossing little scab . . .”

  Harry pulls the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket he has just taken off and sets it down on the grass in front of us. Glinting in the sun, it draws our eyes as we swig our bottles of juice.

  “At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit weird hanging round our necks,” says Ron, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Hermione looks across the lake to the far bank, where the dragon is still drinking.

  “What’ll happen to it, do you think?” she asks. “Will it be all right?”

  “Probably, if it stays away from humans.” I say thinking about my classes with Hagrid.

  “You sound like Hagrid,” says Ron. “It’s a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to worry about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know how to break this to you,” says Ron, “but I think they might have noticed we broke into Gringotts.”

  All four of us start to laugh, and once we start, it is difficult to stop. My sides ache, I feel lightheaded with hunger, but I lay back on the grass beneath the reddening sky and chuckle until I can’t any longer.

  “What are we going to do, though?” says Hermione finally, hiccuping herself back to seriousness. “He’ll know, won’t he? You-Know-Who will know we know about his Horcruxes!”

  “Maybe they’ll be too scared to tell him?” says Ron hopefully. “Maybe they’ll cover up —”

  Suddenly Harry doubles over in pain.

  “Harry!”

  “Harry?”

  “HARRY!”

  We don’t know whether to touch him or not for we’re unsure what is safe anymore and what’s not.

  Finally after a long time Harry struggles to stand up shivering slightly even though he is now in dry clothes.

  “He knows.” Harry says, sounding almost shocked at his own voice. “He knows, and he’s going to check where the others are, and the last one,” he is already on his feet, “is at Hogwarts. I knew it. I knew it.”

  “What?”

  Ron is gaping at him; Hermione sits up, looking worried.

  “But what did you see? How do you know?”

  “I saw him find out about the cup, I — I was in his head, he’s” — Harry pauses — “he’s seriously angry, and scared too, he can’t understand how we know, and now he’s going to check the others are safe, the ring first. He thinks the Hogwarts one is safest, because Snape’s there, because it’ll be so hard not to be seen getting in, I think he’ll check that one last, but he could still be there within hours —”

  “Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?” asks Ron, now scrambling to his feet too.

  “No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he didn’t think about exactly where it is —”

  “Wait, wait!” cries Hermione as Ron catches up the Horcrux and Harry pulls out the Invisibility Cloak again. “We can’t just go, we haven’t got a plan we need to —”

  “We need to get going,” says Harry firmly. Everything is happening so fast, the only thing I can seem to do with my exhausted body is clutch Excalibur for dear life, and hope that we can rest soon. “Can you imagine what he’s going to do once he realizes the ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn’t safe enough?”

  “But how are we going to get in?” I ask softly, unsure if my heart can take the possibility of seeing Ariana again, actually getting to hold her in my arms— or even better, being held by her. For her alone, I find myself agreeing to go along with Harry’s plan, no matter half assed it is.

  “We’ll go to Hogsmeade,” says Harry, “and try to work something out once we see what the protection around the school’s like. Get under the Cloak, Hermione, I want to stick together this time.”

  “But we don’t really fit —”

  “It’ll be dark, no one’s going to notice our feet.”

  The flapping of enormous wings echoes across the black water: The dragon has drunk its fill and rises into the air. We pause in our preparations to watch it climb higher and higher, now black against the rapidly darkening sky, until it vanishes over a nearby mountain. Then Hermione walks forward and takes her place next to me between Harry and Ron. Harry pulls the Cloak down as far as it will go, and together we turn on the spot into the crushing darkness.

  I’m coming love— wait for me.


	20. The Missing Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 20- The Missing Mirror

 

  My feet touch road. I see the achingly familiar Hogsmeade High Street: dark shop fronts, and the outline of black mountains beyond the village, and the curve in the road ahead that leads off toward Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows of the Three Broomsticks, and with a lurch of my heart I remember, having my first quasi pseudo date with Ariana there — and then, even as I relax my grip on Harry’s and Hermione’s arms, it happens.

  The air is rent by a terrible scream: It tears at every nerve in my body, and I know immediately that our appearance has caused it. Even as I looked at the others beneath the Cloak, the door of the Three Broomsticks bursts open and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters dash into the street, their wands aloft.

  Harry seized Hermione’s wrist as I raise my wand; there are too many of them to Stun: Even attempting it will give away our position. One of the Death Eaters waves his wand and the scream stops, still echoing around the distant mountains.

  “Accio Cloak!” roars one of the Death Eaters.

  Harry seizes its folds, but it makes no attempt to escape: The Summoning Charm did not work on it.

  “Not under your wrapper, then, Potter?” yells the Death Eater who tried the charm, and then to his fellows, “Spread out. He’s here.”

  Six of the Death Eaters run towards us: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I back as quickly as possible down the nearest side street, and the Death Eaters miss us by inches. We wait in the darkness, listening to the footsteps running up and down, beams of light flying along the street from the Death Eaters’ searching wands.

  “Let’s just leave!” Hermione whispers. “Disapparate now!”

  “Great idea,” says Ron, but before Harry can reply a Death Eater shouts,

  “We know you’re here, Potter, and there’s no getting away! We’ll find you!”

  “They were ready for us,” whispers Harry. “They set up that spell to tell them we’d come. I reckon they’ve done something to keep us here, trap us —”

  “What about dementors?” calls another Death Eater. “Let ’em have free rein, they’d find him quick enough!”

  “The Dark Lord wants Potter dead by no hand but his —”

  “— an’ dementors won’t kill him! The Dark Lord wants Potter’s life, not his soul. He’ll be easier to kill if he’s been Kissed first!”

  There are noises of agreement. Dread fills me: To repel dementors we will have to produce Patronuses, which will give us away immediately.

  “We’re going to have to try to Disapparate, Harry!” Hermione whispers.

  Even as she says it, I felt the unnatural cold begin to steal over the street. Light is sucked from the environment right up to the stars, which vanish. In the pitch-blackness, I felt Hermione take hold of my arm and together, we turn on the spot.

  The air through which we need to move seems to have become solid: We cannot Disapparate; the Death Eaters have cast their charms well. The cold is biting deeper and deeper into my flesh. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I retreat down the side street, groping our way along the wall, trying not to make a sound. Then, around the corner, gliding noiselessly, come dementors, ten or more of them, visible because they are of a denser darkness than our surroundings, with their black cloaks and their scabbed and rotting hands.

  Okay this is definitely too much. These past few weeks have been like the first six years of our schooling rolled into one twisted game.

  Harry raises his wand he whispers, “Expecto Patronum!”

  The silver stag bursts from his wand and charges: The dementors scatter and there is a triumphant yell from somewhere out of sight.

  “It’s him, down there, down there, I saw his Patronus, it was a stag!”

  The dementors have retreated, the stars are popping out again, and the footsteps of the Death Eaters are becoming louder; but before we can decide what to do, there is a grinding of bolts nearby, a door opens on the left-hand side of the narrow street, and a rough voice says, “Potter, in here, quick!”

  We obey without hesitation: The three of us hurtle through the open doorway.

  “Upstairs, keep the Cloak on, keep quiet!” mutters a tall figure, passing us on his way into the street and slamming the door behind him.

  I did have no idea where we are, but now I see, by the stuttering light of a single candle, the grubby, sawdust-strewn bar of the Hog’s Head Inn. They run behind the counter and through a second doorway, which leads to a rickety wooden staircase that we climb as fast as we can. The stairs open onto a sitting room with a threadbare carpet and a small fireplace, above which hangs a single large oil painting of a blonde girl who gazes out at the room with a kind of vacant sweetness. Something about her strikes me as familiar.

  Shouts reach us from the street below. Still wearing the Invisibility Cloak, we creep towards the grimy window and look down. Our savior, whom I now recognize as the Hog’s Head’s barman, is the only person not wearing a hood.

  “So what?” he is bellowing into one of the hooded faces. “So what? You send dementors down my street, I’ll send a Patronus back at ’em! I’m not having ’em near me, I’ve told you that, I’m not having it!”

  “That wasn’t your Patronus!” says a Death Eater. “That was a stag, it was Potter’s!”

  “Stag!” roars the barman, and he pulls out a wand. “Stag! You idiot — Expecto Patronum!”

  Something huge and horned erupts from the wand: Head down, it chargs toward the High Street and out of sight.

  “That’s not what I saw —” says the Death Eater, though with less certainty.

  “Curfew’s been broken, you heard the noise,” one of his companions tells the barman. “Someone was out in the street against regulations —”

  “If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned to your curfew!”

  “You set off the Caterwauling Charm?”

  “What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill me for sticking my nose out my own front door? Do it, then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you haven’t pressed your little Dark Marks and summoned him. He’s not going to like being called here for me and my old cat, is he, now?”

  “Don’t you worry about us,” says one of the Death Eaters, “worry about yourself, breaking curfew!”

  “And where will you lot traffick potions and poisons when my pub’s closed down? What’ll happen to your little sidelines then?”

  “Are you threatening — ?”

  “I keep my mouth shut, it’s why you come here, isn’t it?”

  “I still say I saw a stag Patronus!” shouts the first Death Eater.

  “Stag?” roars the barman. “It’s a goat, idiot!”

  “All right, we made a mistake,” says the second Death Eater. “Break curfew again and we won’t be so lenient!”

  The Death Eaters stride back towards the High Street. Hermione moans with relief, weaves out from under the Cloak, and sits down on a wobble-legged chair. Harry draws the curtains tight shut then pulls the Cloak off himself, Ron, and me. We can hear the barman down below, re-bolting the door of the bar then climbing the stairs.

  The barman enters the room.

  “You bloody fools,” he says gruffly, looking from one to the other of us, stopping on me a few seconds longer before turning away. “What were you thinking, coming here?”

  “Thank you,” says Harry. “We can’t thank you enough. You saved our lives.”

  The barman grunts. Harry approaches him, looking up into the face, trying to see past the long, stringy, wire-gray hair and beard. He wears spectacles. Behind the dirty lenses, the eyes are a piercing, brilliant blue.

  “It’s your eye I’ve been seeing in the mirror.”

  There is silence in the room. Harry and the barman look at each other. After all this time I have learned to not question it and just sit back.

  “You sent Dobby.” Harry says. Well that was unexpected.

  The barman nods and looks around for the elf.

  “Thought he’d be with you. Where’ve you left him?”

  “He’s dead,” says Harry. “Bellatrix Lestrange killed him.”

  The barman’s face is impassive. After a few moments he says, “I’m sorry to hear it. I liked that elf.”

  He turns away, lighting lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any of us, except stealing a few glances at me, which is odd.

  “You’re Aberforth,” says Harry to the man’s back. Oh. This is Ariana’s great-uncle and only other living Dumbledore relative.

  He neither confirms nor denies it, but bends to light the fire.

  “How did you get this?” Harry asks walking across to Sirius’s mirror, the twin of the one he broke nearly two years before.

  “Bought it from Dung ’bout a year ago,” says Aberforth. “Albus told me what it was. Been trying to keep an eye out for you.”

  Ron gasps.

  “The silver doe!” he says excitedly. “Was that you too?”

  “What are you talking about?” says Aberforth.

  “Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!”

  “Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son. Haven’t I just proved my Patronus is a goat?”

  “Oh,” says Ron. “Yeah . . . well, I’m hungry!” he adds defensively as his stomach gives an enormous rumble.

  I pat Ron on the shoulder, even though my stomach is panging in hunger as well.   

  “I got food,” says Aberforth, and he slopes out of the room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which he sets upon a small table in front of the fire. Ravenous, we eat and drink, and for a while there is silence but for the crackle of the fire, the clink of goblets, and the sound of chewing.

  “Right then,” says Aberforth when we have eaten our fill, and Harry and Ron sit slumped dozily in their chairs. “We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard what happens if anyone moves outdoors during darkness: Caterwauling Charm’s set off, they’ll be onto you like bowtruckles on doxy eggs. I don’t reckon I’ll be able to pass off a stag as a goat a second time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and you’ll be able to Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid. He’s been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever since they tried to arrest him.”

  “We’re not leaving,” says Harry. “We need to get into Hogwarts.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy,” says Aberforth.

  “We’ve got to,” says Harry.

  “What you’ve got to do,” says Aberforth, leaning forward, “is to get as far from here as you can.”

  “You don’t understand. There isn’t much time. We’ve got to get into the castle. Dumbledore — I mean, your brother — wanted us —”

  The firelight makes the grimy lenses of Aberforth’s glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and I remember the blind eyes of the giant spider, Aragog.

  “My brother Albus wanted a lot of things,” says Aberforth, “and people had a habit of getting hurt while he was carrying out his grand plans. You get away from this school, Potter, and out of the country if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes. He’s gone where none of this can hurt him, and you don’t owe him anything.”

  “You don’t understand,” says Harry again.

  “Oh, don’t I?” says Aberforth quietly. “You don’t think I understood my own brother? Think you knew Albus better than I did?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” says Harry. “It’s . . . he left me a job.”

  “Did he now?” says Aberforth. “Nice job, I hope? Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you’d expect an unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without overstretching themselves?”

  Ron gives a rather grim laugh. Hermione is looking strained. I glance at Harry and then quickly to the floor. This has been a lot, but there is seemingly no one else to do it.

  “I-it’s not easy, no,” says Harry. “But I’ve got to —”

  “‘Got to’? Why ‘got to’? He’s dead, isn’t he?” says Aberforth roughly. “Let it go, boy, before you follow him! Save yourself!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I —” Harry pauses. “But you’re fighting too, you’re in the Order of the Phoenix —”

  “I was,” says Aberforth. “The Order of the Phoenix is finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. It’ll never be safe for you here Potter, he wants you too badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. Best take these three with you.” He jerks a thumb at Ron, Hermione, and me. “They’ll be in danger long as they live now everyone knows they’ve been working with you.”

  “I can’t leave,” says Harry. “I’ve got a job —”

  “Give it to someone else!”

  “I can’t. It’s got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all —”

  “Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was he honest with you?”

  “I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother’s knee. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew up, and Albus . . . he was a natural.”

  The old man’s eyes travel to the painting of the girl over the mantelpiece. It is, now that I look around properly, the only picture in the room. There is no photograph of Albus Dumbledore, or of anyone else.

  “Mr. Dumbledore?” says Hermione rather timidly. “Is that your sister? Ariana?”

  “Yes,” says Aberforth tersely. “Been reading Rita Skeeter, have you, missy?”

  Even by the rosy light of the fire it is clear that Hermione has turned red.

  “Elphias Doge mentioned her to us,” I say, speaking up for the first time.

  “That old berk,” mutters Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every orifice, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you four included, by the looks of it.”

  “I grew up around him.” I say softly. Aberforth does nothing but give me a solemn stare, and though I want to wriggle away from it I don’t. There is silence for a few moments.

  “Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very much,” says Hermione in a low voice.

  “Did he now?” says Aberforth. “Funny thing, how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ’em well alone.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Hermione breathlessly.

  “Never you mind,” says Aberforth.

  “But that’s a really serious thing to say!” says Hermione. “Are you — are you talking about your sister?”

  Aberforth glares at her: His lips move as if he is chewing the words he is holding back. Then he bursts into speech.

  “When my sister was six years old, she was attacked, set upon, by three Muggle boys. They’d seen her doing magic, spying through the back garden hedge: She was a kid, she couldn’t control it no witch or wizard can at that age. What they saw scared them, I expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and when she couldn’t show them the trick, they got a bit carried away trying to stop the little freak doing it.”

  Hermione’s eyes are huge in the firelight; Ron looks slightly sick, I grip my hands together tightly trying to stop my power— the fury from coming forth. Aberforth stands up, tall as Albus, and suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his pain.

  “It destroyed her, what they did: She was never right again. She wouldn’t use magic, but she couldn’t get rid of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it exploded out of her when she couldn’t control it, and at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly she was sweet and scared and harmless.”

  “And my father went after the bastards that did it,” says Aberforth, “and attacked them. And they locked him up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he’d done it, because if the Ministry had known what Ariana had become, she’d have been locked up in St. Mungo’s for good. They’d have seen her as a serious threat to the International Statute of Secrecy, unbalanced like she was, with magic exploding out of her at moments when she couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

  “We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved house, put it about she was ill, and my mother looked after her, and tried to keep her calm and happy.”

  “I was her favorite,” he says, and as he says it, a grubby schoolboy seems to look out through Aberforth’s wrinkles and tangled beard. “Not Albus, he was always up in his bedroom when he was home, reading his books and counting his prizes, keeping up with his correspondence with ‘the most notable magical names of the day,’” Aberforth sneers. “He didn’t want to be bothered with her. She liked me best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn’t do it for my mother, I could get her to calm down when she was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she used to help me feed the goats.”

  “Then, when she was fourteen . . . See, I wasn’t there,” says Aberforth. “If I’d been there, I could have calmed her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother wasn’t as young as she was, and . . . it was an accident. Ariana couldn’t control it. But my mother was killed.”

  I feel a great sadness well up in me at hearing what happened. Maybe not every family is happy or meant to be happy.

  “So that put paid to Albus’s trip round the world with little Doge. The pair of ’em came home for my mother’s funeral and then Doge went off on his own and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!”

  Aberforth spits into the fire.

  “I’d have looked after her, I told him so, I didn’t care about school, I’d have stayed home and done it. He told me I had to finish my education and he’d take over from my mother. Bit of a comedown for Mr. Brilliant, there’s no prizes for looking after your half-mad sister, stopping her blowing up the house every other day. But he did all right for a few weeks . . . till he came.”

  And now a positively dangerous look creeps over Aberforth’s face.

  “Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to talk to, someone just as bright and talented as he was. And looking after Ariana took a backseat then, while they were hatching all their plans for a new Wizarding order, and looking for Hallows, and whatever else it was they were so interested in. Grand plans for the benefit of all Wizardkind, and if one young girl got neglected, what did that matter, when Albus was working for the greater good?”

  “But after a few weeks of it, I’d had enough, I had. It was nearly time for me to go back to Hogwarts, so I told ’em, both of ’em, face-to-face, like I am to you, now,” and Aberforth looks down at us, and it takes little imagination to see him as a teenager, wiry and angry, confronting his elder brother. “I told him, you’d better give it up now. You can’t move her, she’s in no fit state, you can’t take her with you, wherever it is you’re planning to go, when you’re making your clever speeches, trying to whip yourselves up a following. He didn’t like that,” says Aberforth, and his eyes are briefly occluded by the firelight on the lenses of his glasses: They shine white and blind again. “Grindelwald didn’t like that at all. He got angry. He told me what a stupid little boy I was, trying to stand in the way of him and my brilliant brother . . . Didn’t I understand, my poor sister wouldn’t have to be hidden once they’d changed the world, and led the wizards out of hiding, and taught the Muggles their place?”

  “And there was an argument . . . and I pulled out my wand, and he pulled out his, and I had the Cruciatus Curse used on me by my brother’s best friend — and Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us were dueling, and the flashing lights and the bangs set her off, she couldn’t stand it —”

  The color is draining from Aberforth’s face as though he has suffered a mortal wound.

  “— and I think she wanted to help, but she didn’t really know what she was doing, and I don’t know which of us did it, it could have been any of us — and she was dead.”

  His voice breaks on the last word and he drops down into the nearest chair. Hermione’s face is wet with tears, and Ron is almost as pale as Aberforth. Harry looks pretty revolted by the story.

  “I’m so . . . I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispers.

  “Gone,” croaks Aberforth. “Gone forever.”

  He wipes his nose on his cuff and clears his throat.

  “’Course, Grindelwald scarpered. He had a bit of a track record already, back in his own country, and he didn’t want Ariana set to his account too. And Albus was free, wasn’t he? Free of the burden of his sister, free to become the greatest wizard of the —”

  “He was never free,” says Harry.

  “I beg your pardon?” says Aberforth.

  “Never,” says Harry. “The night that your brother died, he drank a potion that drove him out of his mind. He started screaming, pleading with someone who wasn’t there. ‘Don’t hurt them, please . . . hurt me instead.’”

  Ron, Hermione, and I are staring at Harry. He has never gone into details about what happened on the island on the lake the night that Dumbledore died.

  “He thought he was back there with you and Grindelwald, I know he did,” says Harry. “He thought he was watching Grindelwald hurting you and Ariana . . . It was torture to him, if you’d seen him then, you wouldn’t say he was free.”

  Aberforth seems lost in contemplation of his own knotted and veined hands. After a long pause he says, “How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn’t more interested in the greater good than in you? How can you be sure you aren’t dispensable, just like my little sister?”

  The look on Harry’s face shows just how insecure Harry actually is about all this.

  “I don’t believe it. Dumbledore loved Harry,” says Hermione.

  “Why didn’t he tell him to hide, then?” shoots back Aberforth. “Why didn’t he say to him, ‘Take care of yourself, here’s how to survive’?”

  “Because,” says Harry before Hermione can answer, “sometimes you’ve got to think about more than your own safety! Sometimes you’ve got to think about the greater good! This is war!”

  “You’re seventeen, boy!”

  “I’m of age, and I’m going to keep fighting even if you’ve given up!”

  “Who says I’ve given up?”

  “‘The Order of the Phoenix is finished,’” Harry repeats. “‘You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone who’s pretending different kidding themselves.’”

  “I don’t say I like it, but it’s the truth!”

  “No, it isn’t,” says Harry. “Your brother knew how to finish You-Know-Who and he passed the knowledge on to me. I’m going to keep going until I succeed — or I die. Don’t think I don’t know how this might end. I’ve known it for years.”

  I wait for Aberforth to jeer or to argue, but he does not. He merely scowls.

  “We need to get into Hogwarts,” says Harry again. “If you can’t help us, we’ll wait till daybreak, leave you in peace, and try to find a way in ourselves. If you can help us — well, now would be a great time to mention it.”

  Aberforth remains fixed in his chair, gazing at Harry with the eyes that are so extraordinarily like his brother’s. At last he clears his throat, gets to his feet, walks around the little table, and approaches the portrait of Ariana.

  “You know what to do,” he says.

  She smiles, turns, and walks away, not as people in portraits usually do, out of the sides of their frames, but along what seems to be a long tunnel painted behind her. We watch her slight figure retreating until finally she is swallowed by the darkness.

  “Er — what — ?” begins Ron.

  “There’s only one way in now,” says Aberforth. “You must know they’ve got all the old secret passageways covered at both ends, dementors all around the boundary walls, regular patrols inside the school from what my sources tell me. The place has never been so heavily guarded. How you expect to do anything once you get inside it, with Snape in charge and the Carrows as his deputies . . .”

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddle together and talk in hushed voices, but I steel myself and approach Aberforth. “Have you met her?” I ask.

  Aberforth looks down at me with an unreadable gaze.

  “Met who?” He asks gruffly.

  “This Ariana. Professor Dumbledore’s granddaughter. I think that she is proof enough that Dumbledore never forgot what happened.” I say simply, thinking of the bright, happy, shining girl that will be close by now.

  Aberforth says nothing, but I can tell that what I’ve said has gotten to him. There is no denying that a namesake is a definite way of remembrance.

  “Well, that’s your lookout, isn’t it? You say you’re prepared to die.” Aberforth says quickly changing the subject and gesturing at the portrait.

  “But what . . . ?” says Hermione, frowning at Ariana’s picture.

  A tiny white dot has reappeared at the end of the painted tunnel, and now Ariana is walking back towards us, growing bigger and bigger as she comes. But there is somebody else with her now, someone taller than she is, who is limping along, looking excited. His hair is longer than I have ever seen it: he appears to have suffered several gashes to his face and his clothes are ripped and torn. Larger and larger the two figures grow, until only their heads and shoulders fill the portrait.   Then the whole thing swings forward on the wall like a little door, and the entrance to a real tunnel is revealed. And out of it, his hair overgrown, his face cut, his robes ripped, clambers the real Neville Longbottom, who gives a roar of delight, leaps down from the mantelpiece, and yells, “I knew you’d come! I knew it, Harry!”

  Okay I was never expecting that to ever happen. The heat from my necklace is now at a steady temperature, feeling almost alive with the possibility of seeing the one it’s charmed to.


	21. The Lost Diadem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 21- The Lost Diadem

 

  “Neville — what the — how — ?” Harry splutters.

  But Neville spots Ron, Hermione, and me, and with yells of delight is hugging us too. Once I am released from the crushing hug, I am able to get a longer look at Neville. I bite my lip worriedly at how bad he appears: One of his eyes is swollen yellow and purple, there are gouge marks on his face, and his general air of unkemptness suggests that he has been living rough. Nevertheless, his battered visage shines with happiness as he lets go of Hermione and says again, “I knew you’d come! Kept telling Seamus and Ariana it was a matter of time!”

  My heart stutters at the sound of her name.

  “Neville, what’s happened to you?” Hermione asks her voice quivering slightly. I glance at the girl, and see her shudder. I wonder if she’s imaginging the torture that we went through and is comparing it to him?

  “What? This?” Neville dismisses his injuries with a shake of the head. “This is nothing. Seamus is worse, and Ariana is roughed up pretty good too. You’ll see. Shall we get going then? Oh,” he turns to Aberforth, “Ab, there might be a couple more people on the way.”

  “Couple more?” repeats Aberforth ominously. “What d’you mean, a couple more, Longbottom? There’s a curfew and a Caterwauling Charm on the whole village!”

  “I know, that’s why they’ll be Apparating directly into the bar,” says Neville. “Just send them down the passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot.”

  Neville holds out his hand to Hermione and helps her to climb up onto the mantelpiece and into the tunnel, doing the same with me next; Ron follows, then Neville. We wait for Harry as he addresses Aberforth. My mind is stuck on the fact that I am going to be able to see Ariana again shortly, and that she may be hurt.

  “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved our lives twice.” Harry says to Aberforth.

  “Look after ’em, then,” says Aberforth gruffly. “I might not be able to save ’em a third time.”

  Harry clambers up onto the mantelpiece and through the hole behind Ariana’s portrait behind us. There are smooth stone steps on the other side: It looks as though the passageway has been here for years. Brass lamps hang from the walls and the earthy floor is worn and smooth; as we walk, our shadows ripple, fanlike, across the wall.

  “How long’s this been here?” Ron asks as we set off. “It isn’t on the Marauder’s Map, is it, Harry? I thought there were only seven passages in and out of school?”

  “They sealed off all of those before the start of the year,” says Neville. “There’s no chance of getting through any of them now, not with curses over the entrances and Death Eaters and dementors waiting at the exits.” He starts walking backwards, beaming, drinking us in. “Never mind that stuff . . . Is it true? Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a dragon? It’s everywhere, everyone’s talking about it, Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about it in the Great Hall at dinner!”

  “Yeah, it’s true,” says Harry.

  Neville laughs gleefully.

  “What did you do with the dragon?”

  “Released it into the wild,” says Ron. “Hermione was all for keeping it as a pet —”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Ron —”

  “But what have you been doing? People have been saying you’ve just been on the run, Harry, but I don’t think so. I think you’ve been up to something.” Neville interrupts again. As much as I am relieved to hear from an old friend and see him, discussing the past events we’ve just gone through, is not high on my list.

  “You’re right,” says Harry, “but tell us about Hogwarts, Neville, we haven’t heard anything.”

  “It’s been . . . well, it’s not really like Hogwarts anymore,” says Neville, the smile fading from his face as he speaks. “Do you know about the Carrows?”

  “Those two Death Eaters who teach here?” I pipe up nervously, trying to keep myself distracted.

  “They do more than teach,” says Neville. “They’re in charge of all discipline. They like punishment, the Carrows.”

  “Like Umbridge?” Harry asks sharply.

  “Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers are all supposed to refer us to the Carrows if we do anything wrong. They don’t, though, if they can avoid it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do.”

  “Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be Defense Against the Dark Arts, except now it’s just the Dark Arts. We’re supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions —”

  “What?” Harry, Ron, Hermione’s, and my united voices echo up and down the passage.

  “Yeah,” says Neville. “That’s how I got this one,” he points at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been top in anything, I expect.”

  Well maybe there is a first for everything?

  “Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” he indicates another slash to his face, “for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.”

  “Blimey, Neville,” says Ron, “there’s a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.”

  “You really have changed.” I say still slightly shocked and overwhelmed with all the new knowledge. The heat against my collarbone from the necklace is constant, and almost feels to be pulsing with my heart now.

  “You didn’t hear her,” says Neville. “You wouldn’t have stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry.”

  I let a soft grin out at that, remembering feeling the same over all the years. There’s the reason why I have been following him so long, despite all his faults, Harry is one of the best people that I have ever met.

  “But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” says Ron, wincing slightly as we pass a lamp and Neville’s injuries are thrown into even greater relief.

  Neville shrugs.

  “Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy but they won’t actually kill us.”

  I do not know what is worse, the things that Neville is saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which he says them.

  “The only people in real danger are the ones whose friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble. They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was getting a bit too outspoken in The Quibbler, so they dragged Luna off the train on the way back for Christmas.”

  “Neville, she’s all right, we’ve seen her —” Hermione starts.

  “Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me.”

  From his pocket he pulls a golden coin, and I recognize it as one of the fake Galleons that Dumbledore’s Army used to send one another messages.

  “These have been great,” says Neville, beaming at Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put graffiti on the walls: Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting, stuff like that. Snape hated it.”

  “You used to?” says Harry.

  “Well, it got more difficult as time went on,” says Neville. “We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny and Luka never came back after Easter, and the five of us are sort of the leaders. It’s just Ariana and me now. The Carrows seem to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.”

  “No kidding,” mutters Ron, as the passage begins to slope upward.

  “Yeah, well, Ariana and I couldn’t ask people to go through what Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But we are still fighting, doing underground stuff, right up until a couple of weeks ago. That’s when they decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose, and they went for Gran.”

  “They what?” say Harry, Ron, Hermione and I together. This is beginning to sound a lot more like a horror story than I would like.

  “Yeah,” says Neville, panting a little now, because the passage is climbing so steeply, “well, you can see their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping kids to force their relatives to behave, I s’pose it was only a matter of time before they did it the other way around. Thing was,” he faces us, and I am shocked to see that he is grinning, “they bit off a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably thought they didn’t need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway,” Neville laughs, “Dawlish is still in St. Mungo’s and Gran’s on the run. She sent me a letter,” he claps a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, “telling me she was proud of me, that I’m my parents’ son, and to keep it up.”

  “Cool,” says Ron.

  “I’m proud of you Neville.” I say, happy that he has finally seemed to grow into his own.

  “Yeah,” says Neville happily. “Only thing was, once they realized they had no hold over me, they decided Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don’t know whether they were planning to kill me or send me to Azkaban; either way, I knew it was time to disappear.”

  “But,” says Ron, looking thoroughly confused, “aren’t — aren’t we heading straight back into Hogwarts?”

  “’Course,” says Neville. “You’ll see. We’re here.”

  We turn a corner and there ahead of us is the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps leads to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana’s portrait. Neville pushes it open and climbs through. As we follow, I hear Neville call out to unseen people:

  “Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you?”

  As we emerge into the room beyond the passage, there are several screams and yells: “HARRY!” “It’s Potter, it’s POTTER!” “Ron!” “Hermione!” “Jamie!”

  I have a confused impression of colored hangings, of lamps and many faces. The next moment, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are engulfed, hugged, pounded on the back, our hair ruffled, our hands shaken, by what seems to be more than twenty people: it was like we may just have won a Quidditch final.

  “Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville calls, and as the crowd backs away, I am able to take in our surroundings.

  I can’t recognize the room at all. It is enormous, and looks rather like the interior of a particularly sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s cabin. Multicolored hammocks are strung from the ceiling and from a balcony that runs around the dark wood-paneled and windowless walls, which are covered in bright tapestry hangings: I see the gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and green of Slytherin alone are absent. There are bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against the walls, and in the corner, a large wooden-cased wireless.

  “Where are we?” I ask unsure if I have ever seen such a room before. I glare around anxiously trying to see if I can catch a glimpse of golden hair, and a smile that can light up the room. Where is she?

  “Room of Requirement, of course!” says Neville. “Surpassed itself, hasn’t it? The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout: I managed to get through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I arrived, it was a load smaller there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived.”

  “And the Carrows can’t get in?” asks Harry, looking around for the door.

  “I would bloody well hope not after I almost lost a few fingers closing the room the last time we fool-proofed it.” A voice rings out from the other side of the great room with the sound of a door closing after it. My heart leaps into my throat beating like a locomotive.

  I could recognize that voice from anywhere. I’ve been having dreams about that voice for months. I look up and am greeted by the most stunning person I have ever come across (in my totally maybe possibly biased opinion). What used to be long curly blond hair rests just a little above her shoulders are soft curls, her brown eyes hold a new fire in them, and while her clothes may be tattered, and her face bruised and slightly bloodied, she looks beautiful to me.

  It takes only moments for our eyes to meet. I feel like my knees are going to give out on me they are shaking so badly. “Hey there Pendragon.” Ariana says, and her voice has changed, it now holds a softer and more open lilt to it. A sob forces its way out of me. The address is so achingly familiar that is demolishes the last of the protective walls that I had shoddily made to protect myself in the months of missing her.

  I don’t notice the crowd making a hole for me to get though, or the fact that Hermione sighs in pleasure and leans a little bit into Ron, or that Harry has a half weary grin on his face. My whole world is focused on her, the girl who understood me enough to let me go, and who puts up with me, annoying faults and all.

  My legs start to give way from all the strain that has been put on them the last few weeks, but before I fall strong arms are around me, and pulling me in tight to a warm and soft body. Tears are streaking down my face uninhibited. Nothing matters anymore. I don’t have to be so strong now, Ariana is here, and like she told me all those years ago, I can let her take some of the burden as well.

  My face is buried into surprisingly still sweet smelling curls of coffee and vanilla, and it brings back so many pleasant memories to fight the bad ones still plaguing my mind. I can’t tell which one of us is trembling, for I’m still vibrating with soft sobs. I can feel the heat and wetness of Ariana’s tears falling against my neck. I tighten my grasp around her neck, and pull myself closer not content with any distance between us.

  What feels like years but could very well be minutes later we pull slightly away from each other. So much has happened in the time that we’ve been apart. Looking at Ariana I no longer see the girl that I spent one final night with in her new bedroom, I see a woman who has seen things that no one should ever have to, let alone at such a young age. Maybe she sees the same when she looks at me?

  All I know is that I quickly surge forward to connect my lips to hers— to make sure that this is real, and that there is still… us. There was never any real need to worry, as soon as our lips touched, a gentle passion filled kiss follows. It warms me to my very being. I am not alone, I never will be with Ariana at my side. The kiss is quickly starting to become more passionate, but I reluctantly pull away from my girlfriend, remembering all of the rest of the people in the room.

  I turn back around and blush when I realize that most everyone is watching our reunion. Some of the girls have tears in their eyes, and the boys are now all studiously looking away like they weren’t just watching us. Ariana trails her hand down to mine, and slides her fingers through mine. Slowly she pulls us back to the group and we make our way slightly off to the side of Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

  I am in no way ready to let go of Ariana, and I guess that she feels the same way when she steps behind me and with the arm not holding my hand, she wraps the other around my waist, and comfortably holds me to her like that. I don’t even mind the intimacy in front of others since I am finally reunited with her.

  “So back to the room…” Harry starts trying to get everyone’s attention back onto the subject at hand.

  “It’s quite straightforward, really,” says Neville modestly. “I’d been in here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to eat, and that’s when the passage to the Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because for some reason, that’s the one thing the room doesn’t really do.”

  Ariana stiffens a little bit behind me at the mention of Aberforth.

  “Yeah, well, food’s one of the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” says Ron to general astonishment.

  “So we’ve been hiding out here for nearly two weeks,” says Seamus, “and it just makes more hammocks every time we need them, and it even sprouted a pretty good bathroom once girls started turning up —”

  “— and thought they’d quite like to wash, yes,” supplies Lavender Brown, whom I did not notice until this point (not that I noticed anyone really). Now that I look around properly, I recognize many familiar faces. Both Patil twins are here, as are Terry Boot, Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner.

  “Tell us what you’ve been up to, though,” says Ernie. “There’ve been so many rumors, we’ve been trying to keep up with you on Potterwatch.” He points at the wireless. “You didn’t break into Gringotts?”

  “They did!” says Neville. “And the dragon’s true too!”

  There is a smattering of applause and a few whoops; Ron takes a bow. Ariana tightens her grip on me hearing that the rumors are true, and I lean back into her more, trying to give her silent reassurance until we can actually talk.

  “What were you after?” asks Seamus eagerly.

  I glance to Harry unsure what he wants to say to them. Suddenly a slash of pain overcomes Harry and he turns his back on the rest of the kids in the room. I grimace knowing that when Harry is like this nothing good ever comes of it.

  Ron grabs Harry when he looks like he’s going to fall sweat pouring down his face.

  “Are you all right, Harry?” Neville is saying. “Want to sit down? I expect you’re tired, aren’t — ?”

  “No,” says Harry. He looks at Ron, Hermione, and me, and I can tell that Voldemort just found out something that he doesn’t like. Time is running out fast.

  “We need to get going,” Harry says, and as much as I hate to be parted from Ariana so soon, I know that I need to be.

  “What are we going to do, then, Harry?” asks Seamus. “What’s the plan?”

  “Plan?” repeats Harry. “Well, there’s something we — Ron, Hermione, Jamie, and I — need to do, and then we’ll get out of here.”

  Nobody is laughing or whooping anymore. Neville looks confused.

  “What d’you mean, ‘get out of here’?” Ariana tightens her grip on me even more, pullin me a little closer to her. I lean my head back against her shoulder, trying to summon some sort of willpower to break away from her.

  “We haven’t come back to stay,” says Harry, rubbing his scar. “There’s something important we need to do —”

  “What is it?”  Ariana asks, speaking up for the first time in a while.

  “I — I can’t tell you.” Harry says.

  There is a ripple of muttering at this: Neville’s brows contract.

  “Why can’t you tell us? It’s something to do with fighting You-Know-Who, right?”

  “Well, yeah —”

  “Then we’ll help you.”

  The other members of Dumbledore’s Army are nodding, some enthusiastically, others solemnly. A couple of them rise from their chairs to demonstrate their willingness for immediate action.

  “You don’t understand.” Harry seems to be tiring out at this rate. “We — we can’t tell you. We’ve got to do it — alone.”

  “Why?” asks Neville.

  “Because . . .” Harry winces and frowns. “Dumbledore left the four of us a job,” he says carefully, “and we weren’t supposed to tell — I mean, he wanted us to do it, just the four of us.”

  “We’re his army,” says Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army. We were all in it together, we’ve been keeping it going while you four have been off on your own —”

  “It hasn’t exactly been a picnic, mate,” says Ron. I shudder at the memories of Nagini and the Manor come up unwanted.

  “I never said it had, but I don’t see why you can’t trust us. Everyone in this room’s been fighting and they’ve been driven in here because the Carrows were hunting them down. Everyone in here’s proven they’re loyal to Dumbledore — loyal to you.” Neville says.

  “We have fought back Harry. We can help.” Ariana says from behind me, and I close my eyes briefly imagining Ariana fighting back against a school that is not welcoming to her. At least she had friends— my brother and sister. I know she is strong— stronger than me I believe, one of the strongest I know.

  “Look,” Harry begins, but it does not matter: The tunnel door has just opened behind us.

  “We got your message, Neville! Hello you three, I thought you must be here!”

  It is Luna and Dean. Seamus gives a great roar of delight and runs to hug his best friend.

  “Hi, everyone!” says Luna happily. “Oh, it’s great to be back!”

  I can’t help the small smile on my face at seeing Luna again. Somehow her particular brand of peculiar lightens any mood.

  “Luna,” says Harry distractedly, “what are you doing here? How did you — ?”

  “I sent for her,” says Neville, holding up the fake Galleon. “I promised her, Ginny, and Luka that if you turned up I’d let them know. We all thought that if you came back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to overthrow Snape and the Carrows.”

  “Of course that’s what it means,” says Luna brightly. “Isn’t it, Harry? We’re going to fight them out of Hogwarts?”

  “Listen,” says Harry beginning to look really panicked, “I’m sorry, but that’s not what we came back for. There’s something we’ve got to do, and then —”

  “You’re going to leave us in this mess?” demands Michael Corner.

  “No!” says Ron. “What we’re doing will benefit everyone in the end, it’s all about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who —”

  “Then let us help!” says Neville angrily. “We want to be a part of it!”

  There is another noise behind us, and we all turn. Harry has a dumbstruck look on his face: Ginny is now climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed by Luka, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Ginny gives Harry a radiant smile. I barely feel Ariana letting go of me so that I can run to Luka. After everything that happened—after believing him dead, when his surprisingly strong arms wrap around me, I let more tears go.

  “I’m happy to see you too.” Luka mutters. I pull back from him to get a good look at him. His golden brown hair is much shorter than it usually is. I bet that Mum strapped him down to a chair and forcefully cut it for the shagginess was finally getting to her. His glasses are a little askew on his face, and I notice that he is again taller than the last time that I’ve seen him. I don’t get the chance to linger though for I’m picked up and spun in two giant bear hugs by my brothers Fred and George.

  Slightly dizzy they set me down with large grins, that I manage to match before I have a face of fiery red hair for I’m being squeezed to death by my one and only sister Ginny.

  “C-can’t breathe…” I gasp and Ginny releases me with a slightly teary grin on her face. I manage a smile back, before retreating a few steps back significantly overwhelmed by the amount of people. Seeming to sense this Ariana steps forward and links our hands together, and I relax almost instantly. I try to ignore the megawatt knowing grin on Ginny’s face and the knowing smile on Luka’s.

  “Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed,” says Fred, raising his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. “He wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway station.”

  I glance at Harry and watch as his mouth falls open. Right behind Lee Jordan comes Harry’s old girlfriend, Cho Chang. She smiles at him.

  “I got the message,” she says, holding up her own fake Galleon, and she walks over to sit beside Michael Corner.

  “So what’s the plan, Harry?” says George.

  “There isn’t one,” says Harry, looking just as overwhelmed by the sheet amount of people as I am.

  “Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favorite kind,” says Fred.

  “You’ve got to stop this!” Harry tells Neville. “What did you call them all back for? This is insane —”

  “We’re fighting, aren’t we?” says Dean, taking out his fake Galleon. “The message said Harry was back, and we were going to fight! I’ll have to get a wand, though —”

  “You haven’t got a wand — ?” begins Seamus.

  Ron turns suddenly to Harry.

  “Why can’t they help?”

  “What?”

  “They can help.” He drops his voice and says, so that no one can hear but Hermione, me, and subsequently Ariana who stand near them, “We don’t know where it is. We’ve got to find it fast. We don’t have to tell them it’s a Horcrux.”

  Harry looks from Ron to Hermione, who murmurs, “I think Ron’s right. We don’t even know what we’re looking for, we need them.” And when Harry looks unconvinced, “You don’t have to do everything alone, Harry.”

  “They’re here Harry. They’re strong. They’re willing to fight. That is not something that we should just ignore.” I say catching Harry’s eyes and gesturing slightly to Ariana’s strong presence that hasn’t left my side even though I am faltering.

  “All right,” Harry says quietly to the three of us. “Okay,” he calls to the room at large, and all noise ceases: Fred and George, who were cracking jokes for the benefit of those nearest, fell silent, and all of them look alert, excited.

  “There’s something we need to find,” Harry says. “Something — something that’ll help us overthrow You-Know-Who. It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw. Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone ever come across something with her eagle on it, for instance?”

  He looks hopefully towards the little group of Ravenclaws, to Padma, Michael, Terry, and Cho, but it is Luna who answers, perched on the arm of Ginny’s chair, with Luka standing beside them.

  “Well, there’s her lost diadem. I told you about it, remember, Harry? The lost diadem of Ravenclaw? Daddy’s trying to duplicate it.” Luna says.

  “Yeah, but the lost diadem,” says Michael Corner, rolling his eyes, “is lost, Luna. That’s sort of the point.”

  “When was it lost?” asks Harry.

  “Centuries ago, they say,” says Cho, and I see Harry’s face fall. This is beginning to seem impossible. “Professor Flitwick says the diadem vanished with Ravenclaw herself. People have looked, but,” she appeals to her fellow Ravenclaws, “nobody’s ever found a trace of it, have they?”

  They all shake their heads.

  “Sorry, but what is a diadem?” asks Ron.

  “It’s a kind of crown,” says Luka. “Ravenclaw’s was supposed to have magical properties, enhance the wisdom of the wearer.”

  “Yes, Daddy’s Wrackspurt siphons —”

  But Harry cuts across Luna.

  “And none of you have ever seen anything that looks like it?”

  They all shake their heads again. Harry looks at Ron, Hermione, and me, we are all disappointed. An object that has been lost this long, and apparently without trace, does not seem like a good candidate for the Horcrux hidden in the castle . . . Before Harry can formulate a new question, however, Cho speaks again.

  “If you’d like to see what the diadem’s supposed to look like, I could take you up to our common room and show you, Harry? Ravenclaw’s wearing it in her statue.”

  Harry again cringes and falters in pain. Ron holds him up again, and after a moment Harry looks at us again.

  “He’s on the move,” he says quietly to Ron, Hermione, and me. Harry glances at Cho and then back at us. “Listen, I know it’s not much of a lead, but I’m going to go and look at this statue, at least find out what the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you know — the other one — safe.”

  Cho has gotten to her feet, but Ginny says rather fiercely, “No, Luna will take Harry, won’t you, Luna?”

  “Oooh, yes, I’d like to,” says Luna happily, and Cho sits down again, looking disappointed.

  “I’m coming with Harry. You’re going to need someone else as well. Besides two of us should be together at all times.” I say, slightly panicked at the thought of losing sight of any of my friends. Harry stares at me for a moment before nodding his head. I turn and look at Ariana, prepared to give her an excuse, but I’m cut off with a kiss. After she pulls back I see an understanding smile on her face.

  “Saving the world is more important love. See you soon.” She says, squeezing my hand one last time before letting go. I give my girlfriend a relieved smile and go to join Harry and Luna, but Luka stops me.

  “Be careful yeah? We got a lot to talk about. So you come back in one piece all right?” He says. I nod my hand and give his hand a quick squeeze before finally making it to the pair.

  “How do we get out?” Harry asks Neville.

  “Over here.”

  He leads Harry, Luna, and me to a corner, where a small cupboard opens onto a steep staircase.

  “It comes out somewhere different every day, so they’ve never been able to find it,” he says. “Only trouble is, we never know exactly where we’re going to end up when we go out. Be careful, Harry, they’re always patrolling the corridors at night.”

  “No problem,” says Harry. “See you in a bit.”

  Harry, Luna, and I hurry up the staircase, which is long, lit by torches, and turns corners in unexpected places. At last we reached what appears to be solid wall.

  “Get under here,” Harry tells Luna and me, pulling out the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over all of us. He gives the wall a little push.

  It melts away at his touch and we slip outside: I glance back and see that it has resealed itself at once. We are standing in a dark corridor: Harry pulls Luna back into the shadows, fumbles in the pouch around his neck, and takes out the Marauder’s Map. Holding it close to his nose he searches, and locates his, Luna’s, and my dots at last.

  “We’re up on the fifth floor,” he whispers, watching Filch moving away from us, a corridor ahead. “Come on, this way.”

  We creep off.

  Through squares of moonlight upon the floor, past suits of armor whose helmets creaked at the sound of our soft footsteps, around corners beyond which who knows what lurks, Harry, Luna, and I walk, checking the Marauder’s Map whenever light permits, twice pausing to allow a ghost to pass without drawing attention to ourselves. I expect to encounter an obstacle at any moment.

  “This way, Harry, Jamie,” breathes Luna, plucking his sleeve and pulling us towards a spiral staircase.

  We climb in tight, dizzying circles; Harry and I have never been up here before. At last we reach a door. There is no handle and no keyhole: nothing but a plain expanse of aged wood, and a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle.

  Luna reaches out a pale hand, which looks eerie floating in midair, unconnected to arm or body. She knocks once, and in the silence it sounds to me like a cannon blast. At once the beak of the eagle opens, but instead of a bird’s call, a soft, musical voice says, “Which came first, the phoenix or the flame?”

  “Hmm . . . What do you think, Jamie, Harry?” says Luna, looking thoughtful.

  “What? Isn’t there just a password?” Harry asks.

  “Unfortunately no.” I grimace remembering Luka’s explanation.

  “Oh no, you’ve got to answer a question,” says Luna.

  “What if you get it wrong?” Harry asks again.

  “Well, you have to wait for somebody who gets it right,” says Luna. “That way you learn, you see?”

  “Yeah . . . Trouble is, we can’t really afford to wait for anyone else, Luna.”

  “No, I see what you mean,” says Luna seriously. “Well then, I think the answer is that a circle has no beginning.”

  “Well reasoned,” says the voice, and the door swings open. Okay it was definitely a good thing that I wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw.

  The deserted Ravenclaw common room is a wide, circular room, airier than any I have ever seen at Hogwarts. Graceful arched windows punctuate the walls, which are hung with blue-and-bronze silks: By day, the Ravenclaws will have a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling is domed and painted with stars, which are echoed in the midnight-blue carpet. There are tables, chairs, and bookcases, and in a niche opposite the door stands a tall statue of white marble.

  I recognize Rowena Ravenclaw from the bust I saw at Luna’s house. The statue stands beside a door that leads, I guess, to dormitories above. Harry strides right up to the marble woman, and she seems to look back at him with a quizzical half smile on her face, beautiful yet slightly intimidating. A delicate-looking circlet has been reproduced in marble on top of her head. It is not unlike the tiara Fleur wore at her wedding. There are tiny words etched into it. Harry steps out from under the Cloak and climbs up onto Ravenclaw’s plinth to read them.

  “‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’”

  “Which makes you pretty skint, witless,” says a cackling voice. My blood runs cold. I shouldn’t have let him leave the cloak.

  Harry whirls around, slipped off the plinth, and lands on the floor. Luna and I turn around under the cloak as well. The sloping-shouldered figure of Alecto Carrow is standing before us, and even as Harry raises his wand, she presses a stubby forefinger to the skull and snake branded on her forearm. Okay, well we’re really not doing all that well in the avoiding Death Eaters department these days.

  If we live through this, I’ll be dead a couple times over from the people who care about me.


	22. The Sacking of Severus Snape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 22- The Sacking of Severus Snape

 

  Luckily Luna whips out her wand a second before me, and performs a beautiful stunning spell on Alecto Carrow. The loud bang seems to shock Harry out of the Voldemort trance that he was put into. He raises his wand warily. Alecto hits the ground so hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkle.

  “I’ve never Stunned anyone except in our D.A. lessons,” says Luna, sounding mildly interested. “That was noisier than I thought it would be.”

  And sure enough, the ceiling has begun to tremble. Scurrying, echoing footsteps are growing louder from behind the door leading to the dormitories: Luna’s spell has woken Ravenclaws sleeping above.

  “Luna, Jamie, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!” Harry hisses. We quickly make our way over to him and help Harry under the cloak just in time as well.

  The door opens and a stream of Ravenclaws, all in their nightclothes, flood into the common room. There are gasps and cries of surprise as they see Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they shuffle in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any moment and attack them. Then one brave little first-year darts up to her and prods her backside with his big toe.

  “I think she might be dead!” he shouts with delight.

  “Oh, look,” whispers Luna happily, as the Ravenclaws crowd in around Alecto.   “They’re pleased!”

  “Yeah . . . great . . .” I mutter unsure how exactly we’re going to get out of this situation still.

  There is a rap on the common room door and every Ravenclaw freezes. From the other side, I hear the soft, musical voice that issues from the eagle door knocker: “Where do Vanished objects go?”

  “I dunno, do I? Shut it!” snarls an uncouth voice that I guess is that of the Carrow brother, Amycus. “Alecto? Alecto? Are you there? Have you got him? Open the door!”

  The Ravenclaws are whispering amongst themselves, terrified. Then, without warning, there comes a series of loud bangs, as though somebody is firing spells into the door.

  “ALECTO! If he comes, and we haven’t got Potter — d’you want to go the same way as the Malfoys? ANSWER ME!” Amycus bellows, shaking the door for all he is worth, but still it does not open. The Ravenclaws are all backing away, and some of the most frightened begin scampering back up the staircase to their beds. I don’t blame them. Then, just as I am wondering what we should in fact do, a second, most familiar voice rings out beyond the door.

  “May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?”

  I can’t help but smile at the familiar voice of Professor McGonagall.

  “Trying — to get — through this damned — door!” shouts Amycus. “Go and get Flitwick! Get him to open it, now!”

  “But isn’t your sister in there?” asks Professor McGonagall. “Didn’t Professor Flitwick let her in earlier this evening, at your urgent request? Perhaps she could open the door for you? Then you needn’t wake up half the castle.”

  “She ain’t answering, you old besom! You open it! Garn! Do it, now!”

  “Certainly, if you wish it,” says Professor McGonagall, with awful coldness. There is a genteel tap of the knocker and the musical voice asks again,

  “Where do Vanished objects go?”

  “Into nonbeing, which is to say, everything,” replies Professor McGonagall.

  The few Ravenclaws who remained behind sprint for the stairs as Amycus bursts over the threshold brandishing his wand. Hunched like his sister, he has a pallid, doughy face and tiny eyes, which fall at once on Alecto, sprawled motionless on the floor. He lets out a yell of fury and fear.

  “What’ve they done, the little whelps?” he screams. “I’ll Cruciate the lot of ’em till they tell me who did it — and what’s the Dark Lord going to say?” he shrieks, standing over his sister and smacking himself on the forehead with his fist. “We haven’t got him, and they’ve gorn and killed her!”

  “She’s only Stunned,” says Professor McGonagall impatiently, who has stooped down to examine Alecto. “She’ll be perfectly all right.”

  “No she bludgering well won’t!” bellows Amycus. “Not after the Dark Lord gets hold of her! She’s gorn and sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we’ve got Potter!”

  “‘Got Potter’?” says Professor McGonagall sharply. “What do you mean, ‘got Potter’?”

  “He told us Potter might try and get inside Ravenclaw Tower, and to send for him if we caught him!”

  “Why would Harry Potter try to get inside Ravenclaw Tower? Potter belongs in my House!”

  Beneath the disbelief and anger, I hear a little strain of pride in her voice. She has always been proud of Harry even when he made stupid mistakes when we were younger.

  “We was told he might come in here!” says Carrow. “I dunno why, do I?”

  Professor McGonagall stands up and her beady eyes sweep the room. Twice they passed right over the place where Harry, Luna, and I stand.

  “We can push it off on the kids,” says Amycus, his piglike face suddenly crafty. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll say Alecto was ambushed by the kids, them kids up there” — he looks up at the starry ceiling towards the dormitories — “and we’ll say they forced her to press her Mark, and that’s why he got a false alarm . . . He can punish them. Couple of kids more or less, what’s the difference?”

  “Only the difference between truth and lies, courage and cowardice,” says Professor McGonagall, who has turned pale, “a difference, in short, which you and your sister seem unable to appreciate. But let me make one thing very clear. You are not going to pass off your many ineptitudes on the students of Hogwarts. I shall not permit it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Amycus moves forward until he is offensively close to Professor McGonagall, his face within inches of hers. She refuses to back away, but looks down at him as if he is something disgusting she found stuck to a lavatory seat. I shudder for her.

  “It’s not a case of what you’ll permit, Minerva McGonagall. Your time’s over. It’s us what’s in charge here now, and you’ll back me up or you’ll pay the price.”

  And he spits in her face.

  Harry pulls the Cloak off himself, raises his wand, and says, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  As Amycus spins around, Harry shouts, “Crucio!”

  The Death Eater is lifted off his feet. He writhes through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashes into the front of a bookcase and crumples, insensible, to the floor. I shudder closing my eyes, trying to get the refreshed memories of my own experience with the spell out of my head.

  “I see what Bellatrix meant,” says Harry, “you need to really mean it.”

  “Potter!” whispers Professor McGonagall, clutching her heart. “Potter — you’re here! What — ? How — ?” She struggles to pull herself together. “Potter, that was foolish!”

  “He spat at you,” says Harry.

  “Potter, I — that was very — very gallant of you — but don’t you realize — ?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Harry assures her. “Professor McGonagall, Voldemort’s on the way.”

  “Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?” asks Luna with an air of interest, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak, and revealing us. This appearance of two more outlaws seemed to overwhelm Professor McGonagall, who staggers backward and falls into a nearby chair, clutching at the neck of her old tartan dressing gown.

  “Hello Professor.” I say with a weak smile.

  “Pendragon…” McGonagall says.

  “I don’t think it makes any difference what we call him,” Harry tells Luna. “He already knows where I am.”

  “You must flee,” whispers Professor McGonagall. “Now, Potter, as quickly as you can!”

  “I can’t,” says Harry. “There’s something I need to do. Professor, do you know where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?”

  “The d-diadem of Ravenclaw? Of course not — hasn’t it been lost for centuries?” She sits up a little straighter. “Potter, it was madness, utter madness, for you to enter this castle —”

  “I had to,” says Harry. “Professor, there’s something hidden here that I’m supposed to find, and it could be the diadem — if I could just speak to Professor Flitwick —”

  There is a sound of movement, of clinking glass: Amycus is coming round. Before Harry, Luna, or I can act, Professor McGonagall rises to her feet, points her wand at the groggy Death Eater, and says, “Imperio.”

  Amycus gets up, walks over to his sister, picks up her wand, then shuffles obediently to Professor McGonagall and hands it over along with his own. Then he lays down on the floor beside Alecto. Professor McGonagall waves her wand again, and a length of shimmering silver rope appears out of thin air and snakes around the Carrows, binding them tightly together.

  “Potter,” says Professor McGonagall, turning to face him again with superb indifference to the Carrows’ predicament, “if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does indeed know that you are here —”

  Harry stumbles, and uses my shoulder to prop himself up. I can see that his connection to Voldemort is causing him pain again.

  “Potter, are you all right?” McGonagall asks.

  “Time’s running out, Voldemort’s getting nearer. Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get the students out while I’m searching the castle — it’s me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a few more or less, not now —” not now he knows we’re attacking Horcruxes, I finish Harry’s sentence in my head.

  “You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeats with a look of dawning wonder. Then she draws herself up to her fullest height.

  “We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this — this object.”

  “Is that possible?” I ask quite shocked and intrigued.

  “I think so,” says Professor McGonagall dryly, “we teachers are rather good at magic, you know. I am sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all put our best efforts into it. Of course, something will have to be done about Professor Snape —”

  “Let me —” Harry starts.

  “— and if Hogwarts is about to enter a state of siege, with the Dark Lord at the gates, it would indeed be advisable to take as many innocent people out of the way as possible. With the Floo Network under observation, and Apparition impossible within the grounds —”

  “There’s a way,” says Harry quickly, and he explains about the passageway leading into the Hog’s Head.

  “Potter, we’re talking about hundreds of students —”

  “I know, Professor, but if Voldemort and the Death Eaters are concentrating on the school boundaries they won’t be interested in anyone who’s Disapparating out of the Hog’s Head.” I say quickly coming to Harry’s defense. Sometimes you need a little support.

  “There’s something in that,” she agrees. She points her wand at the Carrows, and a silver net falls upon their bound bodies, ties itself around them, and hoists them into the air, where they dangle beneath the blue-and-gold ceiling like two large, ugly sea creatures. “Come. We must alert the other Heads of House. You’d better put that Cloak back on.”

  She marches towards the door, and as she does so she raises her wand. From the tip bursts three silver cats with spectacle markings around their eyes. The Patronuses run sleekly ahead, filling the spiral staircase with silvery light, as Professor McGonagall, Harry, Luna, and I hurry back down.

  Along the corridors we race, and one by one the Patronuses leave us; Professor McGonagall’s tartan dressing gown rustles over the floor, and Harry, Luna, and I jog behind her under the Cloak.

  We have descended two more floors when another set of quiet footsteps joins ours. McGonagall too seems to become aware of our company. She halts, raises her wand ready to duel, and says, “Who’s there?”

  “It is I,” says a low voice.

  From behind a suit of armor steps Severus Snape. Of course he would be hiding. I feel Harry tense up beside me, and I grab his arm willing him not to do anything out of anger, though I feel it bubbling up inside of me as well.

  His greasy black hair hangs in curtains around his thin face his black eyes have a dead, cold look. He is not wearing nightclothes, but is dressed in his usual black cloak, and he too is holding his wand ready for a fight.

  “Where are the Carrows?” he asks quietly.

  “Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus,” says Professor McGonagall.

Snape steps nearer, and his eyes flit over Professor McGonagall into the air around her, as if he knows that we are there. Harry holds his wand up too ready to attack. I raise mine warily as well ready to defend the soon to be flying spells.

  “I was under the impression,” says Snape, “that Alecto had apprehended an intruder.”

  “Really?” says Professor McGonagall. “And what gave you that impression?”

  Snape makes a slight flexing movement of his left arm, where the Dark Mark is branded into his skin.

 “Oh, but naturally,” says Professor McGonagall. “You Death Eaters have your own private means of communication, I forgot.”

  Snape pretends not to have heard her. His eyes are still probing the air all about her, and he is moving gradually closer, with an air of hardly noticing what he is doing.

  “I did not know that it was your night to patrol the corridors, Minerva.”

  “You have some objection?”

  “I wonder what could have brought you out of your bed at this late hour?”

  “I thought I heard a disturbance,” says Professor McGonagall.

  “Really? But all seems calm.”

  Snape looks into her eyes.

  “Have you seen Harry Potter, Minerva? Because if you have, I must insist —”

  Professor McGonagall moves faster than I can believe: Her wand slashes through the air and for a split second I thought that Snape would crumple, unconscious, but the swiftness of his Shield Charm is such that McGonagall is thrown off balance. She brandishes her wand at a torch on the wall and it flows out of its bracket: Harry, and I, are forced to pull Luna out of the way of the descending flames, which become a ring of fire that fills the corridor and flies like a lasso at Snape —

  Then it was no longer fire, but a great black serpent that McGonagall blasts to smoke, which re-forms and solidifies in seconds to become a swarm of pursuing daggers: Snape avoids them only by forcing the suit of armor in front of him, and with echoing clangs the daggers sink, one after another, into its breast —

  “Minerva!” says a squeaky voice, and looking behind me, still shielding Luna from flying spells, I see Professors Flitwick and Sprout sprinting up the corridor towards them in their nightclothes, with the enormous Professor Slughorn panting along at the rear.

  “No!” squeals Flitwick, raising his wand. “You’ll do no more murder at Hogwarts!”

  Flitwick’s spell hits the suit of armor behind which Snape has taken shelter: With a clatter it comes to life. Snape struggles free of the crushing arms and sends it flying back towards his attackers: Harry, Luna, and I have to dive sideways to avoid it as it smashes into the wall and shatters. When I look up again, Snape is in full flight, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all thundering after him: He hurtles through a classroom door and, moments later, I hear McGonagall cry, “Coward! COWARD!”

  “What’s happened, what’s happened?” asks Luna.

  Harry drags her to her feet, I have already clambered up, and we race along the corridor, trailing the Invisibility Cloak behind us, into the deserted classroom where Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout are standing at a smashed window.

  “He jumped,” says Professor McGonagall as Harry, Luna, and I run into the room.

  “You mean he’s dead?” Harry sprints to the window, ignoring Flitwick’s and Sprout’s yells of shock at his sudden appearance.

  “We’d only be so lucky.” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling cold despite the warm air coming from the window.

  “No, he’s not dead,” says McGonagall bitterly. “Unlike Dumbledore, he was still carrying a wand . . . and he seems to have learned a few tricks from his master.”

  There are heavy footfalls behind us, and a great deal of puffing: Slughorn has just caught up.

  “Harry!” he pants, massaging his immense chest beneath his emerald-green silk pajamas. “My dear boy . . . what a surprise . . . Minerva, do please explain . . . Severus . . . what?”

  “Our headmaster is taking a short break,” says Professor McGonagall, pointing at the Snape-shaped hole in the window.

  “Professor!” Harry shouts, his hands at his forehead. Harry looks like he is going to practically be sick now holding the scar on his forehead.

  “Professor, we’ve got to barricade the school, he’s coming now!”

  My heart stutters to a stop with fear. We always knew that this day was coming. I was just hoping that it was going to be a little later than right now.

  “Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,” Professor McGonagall tells the other teachers. Sprout and Flitwick gasp; Slughorn lets out a low groan. “Potter has work to do in the castle on Dumbledore’s orders. We need to put in place every protection of which we are capable while Potter does what he needs to do.”

  “You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?” squeaks Flitwick.

  “But we can hold him up,” says Professor Sprout.

  “Thank you, Pomona,” says Professor McGonagall, and between the two witches there passes a look of grim understanding. “I suggest we establish basic protection around the place, then gather our students and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated, though if any of those who are over age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance.”

  “Agreed,” says Professor Sprout, already hurrying towards the door. “I shall meet you in the Great Hall in twenty minutes with my House.”

  And as she jogs out of sight, we can hear her muttering, “Tentacula. Devil’s Snare. And Snargaluff pods . . . yes, I’d like to see the Death Eaters fighting those.”

  I let a small grim smile out at that. No I don’t believe Death Eaters would expect to be attacked with magical plants.

  “I can act from here,” says Flitwick, and although he can barely see out of it, he points his wand through the smashed window and starts muttering incantations of great complexity. I hear a weird rushing noise, as though Flitwick has unleashed the power of the wind into the grounds. I watch fascinated, my interest in Charms peeking through once again.

  “Professor,” Harry says, approaching the little Charms master, “Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is important. Have you got any idea where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?”

  “— Protego Horribilis — the diadem of Ravenclaw?” squeaks Flitwick. “A little extra wisdom never goes amiss, Potter, but I hardly think it would be much use in this situation!”

  “I only meant — do you know where it is? Have you ever seen it?”

  “Seen it? Nobody has seen it in living memory! Long since lost, boy!”

  Harry and I stare at each other worriedly. Where is the Horcrux then?

  “We shall meet you and your Ravenclaws in the Great Hall, Filius!” says Professor McGonagall, beckoning to Harry, Luna, and I to follow her.

  We have just reached the door when Slughorn rumbles into speech.

  “My word,” he puffs, pale and sweaty, his walrus mustache aquiver. “What a to-do! I’m not at all sure whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a way in, you know, and anyone who has tried to delay him will be in most grievous peril —”

  “I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great Hall in twenty minutes, also,” says Professor McGonagall. “If you wish to leave with your students, we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within this castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill.”

  “Minerva!” he says, aghast.

  “The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties,” interrupts Professor McGonagall. “Go and wake your students, Horace.”

  I do not stay to watch Slughorn splutter: Harry, Luna, and I run after Professor McGonagall.

  “That was wicked Professor.” I say my respect for the woman growing by the second. All I can catch is a glimpse of a smile before McGonagall takes up a position in the middle of the corridor and raises her wand.

  “Piertotum — oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not now —”

  The aged caretaker has just come hobbling into view, shouting, “Students out of bed! Students in the corridors!”

  “They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” shouts McGonagall. “Now go and do something constructive! Find Peeves!”

  “P-Peeves?” stammers Filch as though he has never heard the name before.

  “Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peeves! Haven’t you been complaining about him for a quarter of a century? Go and fetch him, at once!”

  Filch evidently thinks Professor McGonagall has taken leave of her senses, but hobbles away, hunch-shouldered, muttering under his breath.

  “And now — Piertotum Locomotor!” cries Professor McGonagall.

  And all along the corridor the statues and suits of armor jump down from their plinths, and from the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, I know that their fellows throughout the castle have done the same. This is amazing…

  “Hogwarts is threatened!” shouts Professor McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school!”

  Clattering and yelling, the horde of moving statues stampede past us: some of them smaller, others larger, than life. There are animals too, and the clanking suits of armor brandish swords and spiked balls on chains.

  “Now, Potter,” says McGonagall, “you Pendragon, and Miss Lovegood better return to your friends and bring them to the Great Hall — I shall rouse the other Gryffindors.”

  We part at the top of the next staircase, Harry, Luna, and I running back towards the concealed entrance to the Room of Requirement. As we run, we meet crowds of students, most wearing traveling cloaks over their pajamas, being shepherded down to the Great Hall by teachers and prefects.

  “That was Potter!”

  “Harry Potter!”

  “It was him, I swear, I just saw him!”

  But we do not look back, and at last we reach the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Harry leans against the enchanted wall, which opens to admit us, and he, Luna, and I speed back down the steep staircase.

  “Wh — ?” I say shocked by what I see.

  As the room came into view, we slip down a few stairs in shock. It is packed, far more crowded than when we were last in there. Kingsley and Lupin are looking up at us, as are Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, Bill and Fleur, and Mum and Dad.

  “Harry, what’s happening?” says Lupin, meeting him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Voldemort’s on his way, they’re barricading the school — Snape’s run for it — What are you doing here? How did you know?”

  “We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore’s Army,” Fred explains. “You couldn’t expect everyone to miss the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed.”

  “What first, Harry?” calls George. “What’s going on?”

  Harry glances at me and I give him a nod, telling him to lead on. This is his show. We’re just here to back him up. I’ve always known that Harry is the most important one out of all of us, since we were little.

  “They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s meeting in the Great Hall to get organized,” Harry says. “We’re fighting.”

  There is a great roar and a surge towards the foot of the stairs; we are pressed back against the wall as we run past him, the mingled members of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, and Harry’s old Quidditch team, all with their wands drawn, heading up into the main castle.

  “Come on, Luna,” Dean calls as he passes, holding out his free hand; she takes it and follows him back up the stairs.

  The crowd is thinning: Only a little knot of people remain below in the Room of Requirement, and Harry and I joined them. Mum is struggling with Ginny. Around them stand Lupin, Fred, George, Bill, Fleur, Luka, and Ariana.

  “You’re underage!” Mum shouts at my sister as we approach. “I won’t permit it! The boys and Jamie, yes, but you, you’ve got to go home!”

  “I won’t!”

  Ginny’s hair flies as she pulls her arm out of her mother’s grip.

  “I’m in Dumbledore’s Army —”

  “A teenagers’ gang!”

  “A teenagers’ gang that’s about to take him on, which no one else has dared to do!” says Fred.

  “She’s sixteen!” shouts Mum. “She’s not old enough! What you two were thinking, bringing her with you —”

  Fred and George look slightly ashamed of themselves.

  “I’m seventeen and I’ve been fighting since I was eleven. Mum, I don’t think that one year is going to make that great deal of a difference.” I say sticking up for my sister, even though the thought of her, or anyone getting hurt makes my stomach churn.

  Mum wheels around on me her eyes blazing. “And YOU Jamie Pendragon! I will deal with you and your brother skipping out and vanishing later. Don’t you dare go putting ideas in your sister’s head!” Mum bellows. I literally cower back, having forgotten that she could get this scary.

  Maybe it would be better if I was to get seriously injured in this battle… stave off an angry mother, but then that would gain me a livid girlfriend, so I probably shouldn’t. Ariana has migrated so that she is at my side again, and I clasp her hand need the support, Luka comes to my other side, and his presence is reassuring. The weight of Excalibur still on my back is a reminder that this won’t end well, the way we want it.

  Luckily Luka hasn’t noticed it yet.

  “Mum’s right, Ginny,” says Bill gently. “You can’t do this. Everyone underage will have to leave, it’s only right.”

  “I can’t go home!” Ginny shouts, angry tears sparkling in her eyes. “My whole family’s here, I can’t stand waiting there alone and not knowing and —”

  Her eyes meet Harry’s for the first time. She looks at him beseechingly, but he shakes his head and she turns away bitterly.

  “Fine,” she says, staring at the entrance to the tunnel back to the Hog’s Head. “I’ll say good-bye now, then, and —”

  There is a scuffling and a great thump: Someone else has clambered out of the tunnel, overbalanced slightly, and fallen. He pulls himself up on the nearest chair, looks around through lopsided horn-rimmed glasses, and says, “Am I too late? Has it started? I only just found out, so I — I —”

  Percy splutters into silence. Evidently he did not expected to run into most of his family. There is a long moment of astonishment, broken by Fleur turning to Lupin and saying, in a wildly transparent attempt to break the tension, “So — ’ow eez leetle Teddy?”

  Lupin blinks at her, startled. The silence between the Weasleys seems to be solidifying, like ice. Luka and I shift awkwardly for even though we’re part of the family we have never been the closest to Percy.

  “I — oh yes — he’s fine!” Lupin says loudly. “Yes, Tonks is with him — at her mother’s —”

  Percy and the other Weasleys are still staring at one another, frozen.

  “Here, I’ve got a picture!” Lupin shouts, pulling a photograph from inside his jacket and showing it to Fleur, Harry, Luka, Ariana, and me, I see a tiny baby with a tuft of bright turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera.

  “I was a fool!” Percy roars, so loudly that Lupin nearly drops his photograph. “I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a — a —”

  “Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron,” says Fred.

  Percy swallows.

  “Yes, I was!”

  “Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” says Fred, holding out his hand to Percy.

  Mum bursts into tears. She runs forward, pushes Fred aside, and pulls Percy into a strangling hug, while he pats her on the back, his eyes on his father.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Percy says.

  Dad blinks rather rapidly then he too hurries to hug his son.

  “What made you see sense, Perce?” inquires George.

  “It’s been coming on for a while,” says Percy, mopping his eyes under his glasses with a corner of his traveling cloak. “But I had to find a way out and it’s not so easy at the Ministry, they’re imprisoning traitors all the time. I managed to make contact with Aberforth and he tipped me off ten minutes ago that Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it, so here I am.”

  “Well, we do look to our prefects to take a lead at times such as these,” says George in a good imitation of Percy’s most pompous manner. “Now let’s get upstairs and fight, or all the good Death Eaters’ll be taken.”

  “So, you’re my sister-in-law now?” says Percy, shaking hands with Fleur as they hurry off towards the staircase with Bill, Fred, and George.

  “Ginny!” barks Mum.

  Ginny was attempting, under cover of the reconciliation, to sneak upstairs too.

  “Molly, how about this,” says Lupin. “Why doesn’t Ginny stay here, then at least she’ll be on the scene and know what’s going on, but she won’t be in the middle of the fighting?”

  “I —”

  “That’s a good idea,” says Dad firmly. “Ginny, you stay in this room, you hear me?”

  Ginny does not seem to like the idea much, but under her father’s unusually stern gaze, she nods. Mum and Dad and Lupin head off for the stairs as well.

  “Where’s Ron?” I ask. “Where’s Hermione?”

  “They must have gone up to the Great Hall already,” Dad calls over his shoulder.

  “I didn’t see them pass me,” says Harry.

  “Me neither.” I say.

  “They said something about a bathroom,” says Ginny, “not long after you left.”

  “A bathroom?” I say, unsure why they would need it.

  Harry strides across the room to an open door leading off the Room of Requirement and checks the bathroom beyond. It is empty.

  “You’re sure they said bath — ?”

  Harry crashes to the floor holding his head in his hands. Luka, Ariana, Ginny, and I rush over to him, trying to help, but not knowing what to do. It is a few agonizing minutes of listening to Harry groan in pain before he finally looks up.

  “He’s here.” Harry says solemnly.


	23. The Battle of Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 23- The Battle of Hogwarts

 

  The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall is dark and scattered with stars, and below it the four long House tables are lined with disheveled students, some in traveling cloaks, others in dressing gowns. Here and there shine the pearly white figures of the school ghosts. Every eye, living and dead, is fixed upon Professor McGonagall, who is speaking from the raised platform at the top of the Hall. Behind her stands the remaining teachers including the palomino centaur, Firenze, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix who have arrived to fight.

  “. . . evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.”

  Many of the students look petrified. However, as Harry and I skirt the walls (Luka and Ariana joining their houses), scanning the Gryffindor table for Ron and Hermione, Ernie Macmillan stands up at the Hufflepuff table and shouts, “And what if we want to stay and fight?”

  There is a smattering of applause.

  “If you are of age, you may stay,” says Professor McGonagall.

  “What about our things?” calls a girl at the Ravenclaw table. “Our trunks, our owls?”

  “We have no time to collect possessions,” says Professor McGonagall. “The important thing is to get you out of here safely.”

  “Where’s Professor Snape?” shouts a girl from the Slytherin table.

  “He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk,” replies Professor McGonagall, and a great cheer erupts from the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws.

  Harry and I move up the Hall alongside the Gryffindor table, still looking for Ron and Hermione. As we passed, faces turn in our direction, and a great deal of whispering breaks out in our wake.

  “We have already placed protection around the castle,” Professor McGonagall is saying, “but it is unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects —”

  But her final words are drowned as a different voice echoes throughout the Hall. It is high, cold, and clear: There is no telling from where it comes; it seems to issue from the walls themselves. Like the monster it once commanded, it may have lain dormant there for centuries.

  “I know that you are preparing to fight.” There are screams amongst the students, some of whom clutch each other, looking around in terror for the source of the sound. “Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.”

  There is silence in the Hall now, the kind of silence that presses against the eardrums that seems too huge to be contained by walls.

  “Give me Harry Potter,” says Voldemort’s voice, “and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.

  “You have until midnight.”

  The silence swallows us all again. Every head turns, every eye in the place seems to have found Harry, to hold him frozen in the glare of thousands of invisible beams. I shift nervously beside him, slipping my wand out of my sleeve. Then a figure rises from the Slytherin table and I recognize Pansy Parkinson as she raises a shaking arm and screams, “But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

  Before Harry can speak, there is a massive movement. I step in front of Harry wand drawn. The Gryffindors in front of us rise and stand facing, not Harry, but the Slytherins. Then the Hufflepuffs stand (Ariana glaring), and almost at the same moment, the Ravenclaws, all of them with their backs to Harry, all of them looking towards Pansy instead, and I, see wands emerging everywhere, pulled from beneath cloaks and from under sleeves.

  I can hear Harry swallow from behind me.

  “Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” says Professor McGonagall in a clipped voice. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.”

  I hear the grinding of benches and then the sound of the Slytherins trooping out on the other side of the Hall.

  “Ravenclaws, follow on!” cries Professor McGonagall.

  Slowly the four tables empty. The Slytherin table is completely deserted, but a number of older Ravenclaws remain seated around Luka while their fellows file out; even more Hufflepuffs stay behind looking at Ariana, and half of Gryffindor remains in their seats, necessitating Professor McGonagall’s descent from the teachers’ platform to chivvy the underage on their way.

  “Absolutely not, Creevey, go! And you, Peakes!”

  Harry and I hurry over to the Weasleys, all sitting together at the Gryffindor table.

  “Where are Ron and Hermione?” Harry asks, and I look worriedly at my family.

  “Haven’t you found — ?” begins Dad, looking worried.

  But he breaks off as Kingsley has stepped forward on the raised platform to address those who have remained behind.

  “We’ve only got half an hour until midnight, so we need to act fast! A battle plan has been agreed between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to the three highest towers — Ravenclaw, Astronomy, and Gryffindor — where they’ll have a good overview, excellent positions from which to work spells. Meanwhile Remus” — he indicates Lupin — “Arthur” — he points towards Dad, sitting at the Gryffindor table — “and I will take groups into the grounds. We’ll need somebody to organize defense of the entrances of the passageways into the school —”

  “Sounds like a job for us,” calls Fred, indicating himself and George, and Kingsley nods his approval.

  “All right, leaders up here and we’ll divide up the troops!”

  “Potter,” says Professor McGonagall, hurrying up to us, as students flood the platform, jostling for position, receiving instructions, “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for something?”

  “What? Oh,” says Harry, “oh yeah!”

  The search for Ron and Hermione has almost driven every other thought out of our heads.

 “Then go, Potter, go!” She shoos us along.

  “Right — yeah —” Harry says and the two of us shoot out of the Great Hall.

  We slow down, coming to a halt halfway along an empty passage, where we sit down upon the plinth of a departed statue and pull the Marauder’s Map out of the pouch around Harry’s neck. We cannot see Ron’s or Hermione’s names anywhere on it, though the density of the crowd of dots now making its way to the Room of Requirement might be concealing them. Harry puts the map away.

  “We need to think about where it could be.” I say bringing Harry attention to me. “Ron and Hermione can take care of themselves.” I try very hard to stick to and believe this. I have to focus my mind off of worry for my family, siblings, friends, and girlfriend to help Harry, for if we do not find this diadem then we are all going to fall tonight no matter what happens.

  “Voldemort knew we would go to Ravenclaw’s common room. He knew we would look there—” Harry starts.

  “So obviously the Horcrux definitely has something to do with Ravenclaw.” I say beginning to get a little excited.

  “Well how are we going to find out where to look if nobody has seen it in living memory?” Harry asks. I suck in a breath of air. Harry turns to look at me his green eyes large behind his glasses.

  “Living memory! We have to ask a ghost!” Harry and I cry in sync. We jump up suddenly energized by the possibility of finally getting to find and hopefully figure out how to destroy the Horcrux.

  We tear back the way we have come. The sound of hundreds of people marching towards the Room of Requirement grows louder and louder as we return to the marble stairs. Prefects are shouting instructions, trying to keep track of the students in their own Houses; there is much pushing and shoving; I see Zacharias Smith bowling over first-years to get to the front of the queue; here and there younger students are in tears, while older ones call desperately for friends or siblings . . .

  We catch sight of a pearly white figure drifting across the entrance hall below and Harry yells as loudly as he can over the clamor.

  “Nick! NICK! I need to talk to you!”

  We force our way back through the tide of students, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, where Nearly Headless Nick, ghost of Gryffindor Tower, stands waiting for us.

  “Harry! My dear boy! Jamie! Good to see you!”

  Nick makes to grasp Harry’s hands with both of his own then mine: my hands feel as though they have been thrust into icy water.

  “Nick, you’ve got to help me. Who’s the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?” Harry asks.

  Nearly Headless Nick looks surprised and a little offended.

  “The Gray Lady, of course; but if it is ghostly services you require — ?”

  “It’s got to be her — d’you know where she is?” I ask grimacing hoping that I don’t offend him.

  “Let’s see . . .”

  Nick’s head wobbles a little on his ruff as he turns hither and thither, peering over the heads of the swarming students.

  “That’s her over there, Harry, Jamie, the young woman with the long hair.”

  “Thanks Nick!” I cry.

  Harry and I looked in the direction of Nick’s transparent, pointing finger and see a tall ghost who catches sight of Harry and I looking at her, raises her eyebrows, and drifts away through a solid wall.

  Harry and I run after her. Once through the door of the corridor into which she has disappeared, I see her at the very end of the passage, still gliding smoothly away from us.

  “Hey — wait — come back!” I call out, hoping that she’ll stop.

  She consents to pause, floating a few inches from the ground. I suppose that she is beautiful, with her waist-length hair and floor-length cloak, but she also looks haughty and proud. Ariana is leagues better in my opinion. Close to, I recognize her as a ghost I have passed several times in the corridor, but to whom I have never spoken. I think the same is true for Harry.

  “You’re the Gray Lady?” Harry asks.

  She nods but did not speak.

  “The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?” I say just to confirm.

  “That is correct.”

  Her tone is not encouraging.

  “Please: I need some help. I need to know anything you can tell me about the lost diadem.” Harry asks her.

  A cold smile curves her lips.

  “I am afraid,” she says, turning to leave, “that I cannot help you.”

  “WAIT!” Harry yells.

 Harry glances at his watch as she hovers in front of us and I look as well: It is a quarter to midnight.

  “This is urgent,” Harry says fiercely. “If that diadem’s at Hogwarts, I’ve got to find it, fast.”

  “You are hardly the first student to covet the diadem,” she says disdainfully. “Generations of students have badgered me —”

  “This isn’t about trying to get better marks!” Harry shouts at her. “It’s about Voldemort — defeating Voldemort — or aren’t you interested in that?”

  She cannot blush, but her transparent cheeks become more opaque, and her voice is heated as she replies, “Of course I — how dare you suggest — ?”

  “Well, help us, then!” I cry desperately.

  Her composure is slipping.

  “It — it is not a question of —” she stammers. “My mother’s diadem —”

  “Your mother’s?” Harry says shocked.

  She looks angry with herself.

  “When I lived,” she says stiffly, “I was Helena Ravenclaw.”

  “You’re her daughter? But then, you must know what happened to it!” I cry getting excited again.

  “While the diadem bestows wisdom,” she says with an obvious effort to pull herself together, “I doubt that it would greatly increase your chances of defeating the wizard who calls himself Lord —”

  “Haven’t I just told you, I’m not interested in wearing it!” Harry says fiercely.   “There’s no time to explain — but if you care about Hogwarts, if you want to see Voldemort finished, you’ve got to tell me anything you know about the diadem!”

  She remains quite still, floating in midair, staring down at him, and a sense of hopelessness engulfs me. Of course, if she knew anything, she would have told Flitwick or Dumbledore, who surely asked her the same question. Harry shakes his head and makes to turn away when she speaks in a low voice.

  “I stole the diadem from my mother.”

  “You — you did what?” I choke.

  “I stole the diadem,” repeats Helena Ravenclaw in a whisper. “I sought to make myself cleverer, more important than my mother. I ran away with it.”

  I do not know how we have managed to gain her confidence, and do not ask; we simply listen, hard, as she goes on:

  “My mother, they say, never admitted that the diadem was gone, but pretended that she had it still. She concealed her loss, my dreadful betrayal, even from the other founders of Hogwarts.”

  “Then my mother fell ill — fatally ill. In spite of my perfidy, she was desperate to see me one more time. She sent a man who had long loved me, though I spurned his advances, to find me. She knew that he would not rest until he had done so.”

  We wait. She draws a deep breath and throws back her head.

  “He tracked me to the forest where I was hiding. When I refused to return with him, he became violent. The Baron was always a hot-tempered man. Furious at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me.”

  “The Baron? You mean — ?” Harry says shocked.

  “The Bloody Baron, yes,” says the Gray Lady, and she lifts aside the cloak she wears to reveal a single dark wound in her white chest. “When he saw what he had done, he was overcome with remorse. He took the weapon that had claimed my life, and used it to kill himself. All these centuries later, he wears his chains as an act of penitence . . . as he should,” she adds bitterly.

  “And . . . and the diadem?” I ask softly, feeling sad at the story.

  “It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the Baron blundering through the forest toward me. Concealed inside a hollow tree.”

  “A hollow tree?” repeats Harry. “What tree? Where was this?”

  “A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far beyond my mother’s reach.”

  “Albania,” repeats Harry. “You’ve already told someone this story, haven’t you? Another student?”

  She closes her eyes and nods.

  “I had . . . no idea . . . He was . . . flattering. He seemed to . . . to understand . . . to sympathize . . .”

  Yes, Tom Riddle would certainly have understood Helena Ravenclaw’s desire to possess fabulous objects to which she has little right.

  “Well, you weren’t the first person Riddle wormed things out of,” Harry mutters.   “He could be charming when he wanted . . .”

  “You just happened to tell the wrong person.” I say trying to comfort the ghost. I don’t understand rivalry with my mother for my own was taken away from me, but I have seen enough in this life to know that family relations are some of the hardest and trickiest.

  “— the night he asked for a job!” says Harry, aloud. He shocks both Helena and I.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked Dumbledore to let him teach!” says Harry.  “Jamie, he must’ve hidden the diadem on his way up to, or down from, Dumbledore’s office! But it was still worth trying to get the job — then he might’ve got the chance to nick Gryffindor’s sword as well — thank you, thanks!”

  Harry leaves her floating there looking utterly bewildered and I follow him. As we round the corner back into the entrance hall, he checks his watch.

  “We’ve only five minutes to midnight!” Harry cries.

  “And we still don’t know where the diadem is.” I say feeling distraught.

   We turn a corner, but have taken only a few steps down the new corridor when the window to our left breaks open with a deafening, shattering crash. As we leaps aside, a gigantic body flies in through the window and hits the opposite wall. Something large and furry detaches itself, whimpering, from the new arrival and flings itself at Harry and me.

  “Hagrid!” I cry.

  “Hagrid!” Harry bellows, fighting off Fang the boarhound’s attentions as the enormous bearded figure clambers to his feet. “What the — ?”

  “Harry, yer here! Jamie Yer here!”

  Hagrid stoops down, bestows upon Harry and me a cursory and rib-cracking hug, then runs back to the shattered window.

  “Good boy, Grawpy!” he bellows through the hole in the window. “I’ll see yer in a moment, there’s a good lad!”

  Beyond Hagrid, out in the dark night, I see bursts of light in the distance and hear a weird, keening scream. Harry looked down at his watch and I glance again: It is midnight. The battle has begun. My fear for everyone lodges itself in my throat. The heat along my collarbone is strong. Stay strong love. If anyone can do it it’s you.

  “Blimey, Harry, Jamie,” pants Hagrid, “this is it, eh? Time ter fight?”

  “Hagrid, where have you come from?” I ask.

  “Heard You-Know-Who from up in our cave,” says Hagrid grimly. “Voice carried, didn’ it? ‘Yeh got till midnight ter gimme Potter.’ Knew yeh mus’ be here, knew what mus’ be happenin’. Get down, Fang. So we come ter join in, me an’ Grawpy an’ Fang. Smashed our way through the boundary by the forest, Grawpy was carryin’ us, Fang an’ me. Told him ter let me down at the castle, so he shoved me through the window, bless him. Not exac’ly what I meant, bu’ — where’s Ron an’ Hermione?”

  “That,” I say, “is a really good question. Come on.”

  We hurry together along the corridor, Fang lolloping beside us. I can hear movement through the corridors all around: running footsteps, shouts; through the windows, I can see more flashes of light in the dark grounds.

  “Where’re we goin’?” puffs Hagrid, pounding along at Harry’s and my heels, making the floorboards quake.

  “I dunno exactly,” says Harry, making another random turn, “but Ron and Hermione must be around here somewhere . . .”

  The first casualties of the battle are already strewn across the passage ahead: The two stone gargoyles that usually guard the entrance to the staffroom have been smashed apart by a jinx that has sailed through another broken window. Their remains stir feebly on the floor, and as Harry leaps over one of their disembodied heads, it moans faintly, “Oh, don’t mind me . . . I’ll just lie here and crumble . . .”

  I quickly perform the charm to put them back together, and nod at they’re thanks.

  I am shocked and Harry roused by Professor Sprout, who is thundering past followed by Neville and half a dozen others, all of them wearing earmuffs and carrying what appears to be large potted plants.

  “Mandrakes!” Neville bellows at Harry and me over his shoulder as he runs. “Going to lob them over the walls — they won’t like this!”

  “Good thinking!” I shout back. Those suckers can kill.

  I guess that Harry knows where we have to go no since he takes off running, and Hagrid, Fang and I follow behind him.

  We pass portrait after portrait, and the painted figures race alongside us, wizards and witches in ruffs and breeches, in armor and cloaks, cramming themselves into each others’ canvases, screaming news from other parts of the castle. As we reach the end of this corridor, the whole castle shakes, and I knew, as a gigantic vase blows off its plinth with explosive force, that it is in the grip of enchantments more sinister than those of the teachers and the Order.

  “It’s all righ’, Fang — it’s all righ’!” yells Hagrid, but the great boarhound has taken flight as slivers of china fly like shrapnel through the air, and Hagrid pounds off after the terrified dog, leaving Harry and me alone.

  “Just us then!” I say trying to be supportive, knowing that Harry needs me now more than ever.

  We forge on through the trembling passages, our wands at the ready, and for the length of one corridor the little painted knight, Sir Cadogan, rushes from painting to painting beside us, clanking along in his armor, screaming encouragement, his fat little pony cantering behind him.

  “Braggarts and rogues, dogs and scoundrels, drive them out, Harry Potter, see them off!”

  Harry and I hurtle around a corner and find Fred and a small knot of students, including Lee Jordan and Hannah Abbott, standing beside another empty plinth, whose statue has concealed a secret passageway. Their wands are drawn and they are listening at the concealed hole.

  “Nice night for it!” Fred shouts as the castle quakes again, and Harry and I sprint by, elated and terrified in equal measure. This is most running that we’ve done in a long time and its beginning to take a toll. Along yet another corridor we dash, and then there are owls everywhere, and Mrs. Norris is hissing and trying to bat them with her paws, no doubt to return them to their proper place . . .

  “Potter!”

  Aberforth Dumbledore stands blocking the corridor ahead, his wand held ready.

  “I’ve had hundreds of kids thundering through my pub, Potter!”

  “I know, we’re evacuating,” Harry says, “Voldemort’s —”

  “— attacking because they haven’t handed you over, yeah,” says Aberforth, “I’m not deaf, the whole of Hogsmeade heard him. And it never occurred to any of you to keep a few Slytherins hostage? There are kids of Death Eaters you’ve just sent to safety. Wouldn’t it have been a bit smarter to keep ’em here?”

  “It wouldn’t stop Voldemort,” says Harry, “and your brother would never have done it.”

  Aberforth grunts and tears away in the opposite direction.

  “He needs to hear it.” I say trying to comfort Harry.

  And then we skid around a final corner and with a yell of mingled relief and fury we see them: Ron and Hermione, both with their arms full of large, curved, dirty yellow objects, Ron with a broomstick under his arm.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Harry shouts. I am just relieved that I can stop worrying about two people now.

  “Chamber of Secrets,” says Ron.

  “Chamber — what?” I say my eyes large, coming to an unsteady halt before them.

  “It was Ron, all Ron’s idea!” says Hermione breathlessly. “Wasn’t it absolutely brilliant? There we were, after you left, and I said to Ron, even if we find the other one, how are we going to get rid of it? We still hadn’t got rid of the cup! And then he thought of it! The basilisk!”

  “What the — ?” Harry starts.

  “Something to get rid of Horcruxes,” says Ron simply.

  Harry’s and my eyes drop to the objects clutched in Ron and Hermione’s arms: great curved fangs, torn, I now realize, from the skull of a dead basilisk.

  “But how did you get in there?” he asks, staring from the fangs to Ron. “You need to speak Parseltongue!”

  “He did!” whispers Hermione. “Show him, Ron!”

  Ron makes a horrible strangled hissing noise. I can’t help but giggle a little despite the situation.

  “It’s what you did to open the locket,” he tells Harry apologetically. “I had to have a few goes to get it right, but,” he shrugs modestly, “we got there in the end.”

  “He was amazing!” says Hermione. “Amazing!”

  “So . . .” Harry is struggling to keep up. “So . . .” Frankly so am I.

  “So we’re another Horcrux down,” says Ron, and from under his jacket he pulls the mangled remains of Hufflepuff’s cup. “Hermione stabbed it. Thought she should. She hasn’t had the pleasure yet.”

  “Genius!” yell Harry and I.

  “It was nothing,” says Ron, though he looks delighted with himself. “So what’s new with you?”

  As he says it, there is an explosion from overhead: All four of us look up as dust falls from the ceiling and we hear a distant scream.

  “I know what the diadem looks like, and I know where it is,” says Harry, talking fast. “He hid it exactly where I hid my old Potions book, where everyone’s been hiding stuff for centuries. He thought he was the only one to find it. Come on.”

  As the walls tremble again, he leads the three of us back through the concealed entrance and down the staircase into the Room of Requirement. It is empty except for three women: Ginny, Tonks, and an elderly witch wearing a moth-eaten hat, whom I recognize immediately as Neville’s grandmother.

  “Ah, Potter,” she says crisply as if she has been waiting for him. “You can tell us what’s going on.”

  “Is everyone okay?” say Ginny and Tonks together.

  “’S far as we know,” says Harry. “Are there still people in the passage to the Hog’s Head?”

  He knows that the room will not be able to transform while there are still users inside it.

  “I was the last to come through,” says Mrs. Longbottom. “I sealed it, I think it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen my grandson?”

  “He’s fighting,” I say.

  “Naturally,” says the old lady proudly. “Excuse me, I must go and assist him.”

  With surprising speed she trots off towards the stone steps.

  We look at Tonks.

  “I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at your mother’s?” Harry says.

  “I couldn’t stand not knowing —” Tonks looks anguished. “She’ll look after him — have you seen Remus?”

  “He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds —” I explain.

  Without another word, Tonks speeds off.

  “Ginny,” says Harry, “I’m sorry, but we need you to leave too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in.”

  Ginny looks simply delighted to leave her sanctuary.

  “And then you can come back in!” he shouts after her as she runs up the steps after Tonks. “You’ve got to come back in!”

  “Hang on a moment!” says Ron sharply. “We’ve forgotten someone!”

  “Who?” asks Hermione.

  “The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen, won’t they?” Ron says.

  “You mean we ought to get them fighting?” asks Harry.

  “No,” says Ron seriously, “I mean we should tell them to get out. We don’t want any more Dobbies, do we? We can’t order them to die for us —”

  There is a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascade out of Hermione’s arms. Running at Ron, she flings them around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth. Ron throws away the fangs and broomstick he is holding and responds with such enthusiasm that he lifts Hermione off her feet. I studiously look away equal parts happy for my best friend and brother, and uncomfortable with the situation.

  “Is this the moment?” Harry asks weakly, and when nothing happens except that Ron and Hermione grip each other still more firmly and sway on the spot, he raises his voice. “OI! There’s a war going on here!”

  Ron and Hermione break apart, their arms still around each other.

  “I know, mate,” says Ron, who looks as though he has recently been hit on the back of the head with a Bludger, “so it’s now or never, isn’t it?”

  “Never mind that, what about the Horcrux?” Harry shouts. “D’you think you could just — just hold it in until we’ve got the diadem?”

  “Yeah — right — sorry —” says Ron, and he and Hermione set about gathering up fangs, both pink in the face.

  It is clear, as the four of us step back into the corridor upstairs, that in the minutes that we have spent in the Room of Requirement the situation within the castle has deteriorated severely: The walls and ceiling are shaking worse than ever; dust fills the air, and through the nearest window, I see bursts of green and red light so close to the foot of the castle that I know the Death Eaters must be very near to entering the place. Looking down, I see Grawp the giant meandering past, swinging what looks like a stone gargoyle torn from the roof and roaring his displeasure.

  “Let’s hope he steps on some of them!” says Ron as more screams echo from close by.

  “As long as it’s not any of our lot!” says a voice: I turn and see Ginny and Tonks, both with their wands drawn at the next window, which is missing several panes. Even as I watch, Ginny sends a well-aimed jinx into a crowd of fighters below.

  “Good girl!” roars a figure running through the dust towards us, and I see Aberforth again, his gray hair flying as he leads a small group of students past I recognize Luka as once of them. He looks a little beat up, but still determined and strong. “They look like they might be breaching the north battlements, they’ve brought giants of their own!”

  “Have you seen Remus?” Tonks calls after him.

  “He was dueling Dolohov,” shouts Aberforth, “haven’t seen him since!”

  “Tonks,” says Ginny, “Tonks, I’m sure he’s okay —”

  But Tonks has run off into the dust after Aberforth.

  Ginny turns, helpless, to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me.

  “They’ll be all right,” I say, knowing they are empty words. “Ginny, we’ll be back in a moment, just keep out of the way, keep safe — come on!” I say to Ron and Hermione, following after Harry, we run back to the stretch of wall beyond which the Room of Requirement is waiting to do the bidding of the next entrant.

  Ron, Hermione, and I stand watching as Harry paces back and forth in front of the wall three times.

  The door materializes on his third run past.

  The furor of the battle dies the moment we cross the threshold and close the door behind us: All is silent. We are in a place the size of a cathedral with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built of objects hidden by thousands of long-gone students.

  “And he never realized anyone could get in?” says Ron, his voice echoing in the silence.

  “He thought he was the only one,” says Harry. “Too bad for him I’ve had to hide stuff in my time . . . this way,” he adds, “I think it’s down here . . .”

  We pass a stuffed troll and a big cabinet when Harry pauses looking lost.

  “Accio Diadem!” cries Hermione in desperation, but nothing flies through the air towards us. It seems that, like the vault at Gringotts that Harry and Hermione described, the room will not yield its hidden objects that easily.

  “Let’s split up,” Harry tells us. “Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara! It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely somewhere near here . . .”

  We speed off up adjacent aisles; I can hear the others’ footsteps echoing through the towering piles of junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons, broomsticks, bats . . .

  I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for still even after Harry told us what bust to look for. I couldn’t help but feel that something bad was going to happen and happen very soon. I go deeper into the labyrinth trying to make sure that I can still hear something of the others so that I don’t get truly and hopelessly lost like I had a felt a few turns ago. A few minutes later I begin to hear voices.

  I stop at the end of my aisle when I hear a familiar voice.

   “Hold it, Potter.”

  I creep forward a few steps so that I can see what’s going on. Harry is standing near a cupboard with a statue bust of a pockmarked stone warlock wearing what looks like an ancient discolored tiara. That has to be the diadem. Standing a few feet in front of Harry are Crabbe and Goyle standing side by side with their wands pointing at Harry.

  Through the small space between their jeering faces I can see Draco Malfoy. My hand tightens on my wand that I didn’t even recognize slipping out of my pocket.

  “That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter,” says Malfoy, pointing his own through the gap between Crabbe and Goyle.

  “Not anymore,” pants Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?”

  “My mother,” says Draco.

  Harry laughs, and I find my hand drifting towards the pommel of the sword over my shoulder. He can’t hear Ron or Hermione anymore. They seem to have run out of earshot, searching for the diadem.

  “So how come you three aren’t with Voldemort?” asks Harry.

  “We’re gonna be rewarded,” says Crabbe: His voice is surprisingly soft for such an enormous person; I have hardly ever heard him speak before. Crabbe is smiling like a small child promised a large bag of sweets. “We ’ung back, Potter. We decided not to go. Decided to bring you to ’im.”

  “Good plan,” says Harry in mock admiration. My hand itches to hex the three boys. With a soft scraping sound the sword slides out of the sheath until it is in front of me. The silvery steel blade is glinting in the light in front of me. The intricate design on the blade catches my eye with its geometric shapes. I glance up again and see Harry begin edging slowly backwards toward the place where the Horcrux sits lopsided upon the bust.

  “So how did you get in here?” Harry asks, trying to distract them.

  “I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year,” says Malfoy, his voice brittle. “I know how to get in.”

  “We was hiding in the corridor outside,” grunts Goyle. “We can do Diss-lusion Charms now! And then,” his face splits into a gormless grin, “you turned up right in front of us and said you was looking for a die-dum! What’s a die-dum?”

  “Harry?” Ron’s voice echoes suddenly from the other side of the wall to Harry’s right. “Are you talking to someone?” My grip tightens on the sword and I slip my wand back into my pocket, something instinctive is telling me to go for Excalibur instead of my wand. There is something coming to a crest inside of me and I feel like it is almost ready to break through, which is both frightening and sort of exciting.

  With a whiplike movement, Crabbe points his wand at the fifty-foot mountain of old furniture, of broken trunks, of old books and robes and unidentifiable junk, and shouts, “Descendo!”

  The wall begins to totter then the top third crumbles into the aisle next door where Ron stands.

  “Ron!” Harry bellows, as somewhere out of sight Hermione screams, and I hear innumerable objects crashing to the floor on the other side of the destabilized wall: Harry points his wand at the rampart, cries, “Finite!” and it steadies.

  “No!” shouts Malfoy, staying Crabbe’s arm as the latter made to repeat his spell. “If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!”

  “What’s that matter?” says Crabbe, tugging himself free. “It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about a die-dum?”

  “Potter came in here to get it,” says Malfoy with ill-disguised impatience at the slow-wittedness of his colleagues, “so that must mean —”

 “‘Must mean’?” Crabbe turns on Malfoy with undisguised ferocity. “Who cares what you think? I don’t take your orders no more Draco. You an’ your dad are finished.”

  “Harry?” shouts Ron again, from the other side of the junk wall. “What’s going on?”

  “Harry?” mimics Crabbe. “What’s going — no, Potter! Crucio!”

  Harry lunges for the tiara; Crabbe’s curse misses him but hits the stone bust, which flies into the air; the diadem soars upward and then drops out of sight in the mass of objects on which the bust rested.

  “STOP!” Malfoy shouts at Crabbe, his voice echoing through the enormous room. “The Dark Lord wants him alive —”  

  “So? I’m not killing him, am I?” yells Crabbe, throwing off Malfoy’s restraining arm. “But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what’s the diff — ?”

  A jet of scarlet light shoots past Harry by inches: Hermione has run around the corner behind him and sends a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe’s head. It only misses because Malfoy pulls him out of the way. My heart clenches, and I know that its time to come out of hiding.

  “It’s that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!” Crabbe sends the killing curse at Hermione. I don’t think that I’ve ever moved that fast in my life. Even though Hermione is able to dive to the side, I am there, guarding her, reflecting the curse with the side of my blade and shoots straight back at Crabbe missing him by centimeters. I look down at the blade in shock. Hermione’s stunned face is looking up at me.

  “J-Jamie… glowing.” She stutters. I have seconds to glance down at myself and see that there is a sort of blue glow around my body and that blue fire is surrounding Excalibur and my hands.

  I look up to see Harry send a stunning spell at Crabbe who dodges again but it knocks Malfoy’s wand out of his hand; it rolls out of sight beneath a mountain of broken furniture and boxes.

  “Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Malfoy yells at Crabbe and Goyle, who are both aiming at Harry and sometimes at me my blade almost instinctively deflecting them: Their split second’s hesitation was all Harry needs.

  “Expelliarmus!”

  Goyle’s wand flies out of his hand and disappears into the bulwark of objects beside him; Goyle leaps foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it; Malfoy jumps out of range of Hermione’s second Stunning Spell, and Ron, appearing suddenly at the end of the aisle, shoots a full Body-Bind Curse at Crabbe, which narrowly misses.

  Crabbe wheels around and screams, “Avada Kedavra!” again. Ron leaps out of sight to avoid the jet of green light. The wandless Malfoy cowers behind a three-legged wardrobe as Hermione charges toward them, hitting Goyle with a Stunning Spell as she comes. I back her deflecting rouge spells as they come.

  “It’s somewhere here!” Harry yells at us, pointing at the pile of junk into which the old tiara has fallen. “Look for it while I go and help R —”

  “HARRY!” Hermione screams.

  A roaring, billowing noise behind us gave us a moment’s warning. I turn and see both Ron and Crabbe running as hard as they can up the aisle towards us.

  “Like it hot, scum?” roars Crabbe as he runs.

  But he seems to have no control over what he has done. Flames of abnormal size are pursuing us, licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which are crumbling to soot at their touch. Merlin… I quickly sheath Excalibur for I know that now is time to run not fight.

  “Aguamenti!” Harry bawls, but the jet of water that soars from the tip of his wand evaporates in the air.

  “RUN!”

  Malfoy grabs the Stunned Goyle and drags him along; Crabbe outstrips all of us, now looking terrified; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I pelted along in his wake, and the fire pursues us. It is not normal fire; Crabbe has used a curse of which I have no knowledge: As we turn a corner the flames chase us as though they are alive, sentient, intent upon killing us. Now the fire is mutating, forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts: Flaming serpents, chimaeras, and dragons rise and fall and rise again, and the detritus of centuries on which we are feeding is thrown up in the air into their fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before being consumed by the inferno.

  Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle have vanished from view: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stop dead; the fiery monsters are circling us, drawing closer and closer, claws and horns and tails lash, and the heat is solid as a wall around us.

  “What can we do?” Hermione screams over the deafening roars of the fire. “What can we do?”

  “Here!”

  Harry seizes a pair of heavy-looking broomsticks from the nearest pile of junk and throws one to Ron, who pulls Hermione onto it behind him. I quickly get on behind Harry, and wrap my arms around him prepared to hold on.

  With hard kicks to the ground, we soar up into the air, missing by feet the horned beak of a flaming raptor that snaps its jaws at us. I wince at the heat felt through my shoe. The smoke and heat are becoming overwhelming: Below us the cursed fire is consuming the contraband of generations of hunted students, the guilty outcomes of a thousand banned experiments, the secrets of the countless souls who have sought refuge in the room. I cannot see a trace of Malfoy, Crabbe, or Goyle anywhere: Harry swoops us as low as he dares over the marauding monsters of flame to try to find them, but there is nothing but fire: What a terrible way to die . . . I didn’t want this no matter how bad they were, I can tell that Harry feels the same by the anguished look on his face . . .

  “Harry, let’s get out, let’s get out!” bellows Ron, though it is impossible to see where the door is through the black smoke. I am beginning to cough, getting slowly smothered by the thick smoke being inhaled into my lungs.

  And then we hear a thin, piteous human scream from amidst the terrible commotion, the thunder of devouring flame.

  “It’s — too — dangerous — !” Ron yells, but Harry wheels in the air. We rake the firestorm below, seeking a sign of life, a limb or a face that is not yet charred like wood . . .

  And I see them: Malfoy with his arms around the unconscious Goyle, the pair of them perched on a fragile tower of charred desks, and Harry dives with me tightening my grip on him. Malfoy sees us coming and raises one arm, but even as Harry and I grasp it I know at once that it is no good: Goyle is too heavy and Malfoy’s hand, covered in sweat, slides instantly out of the combined grip of both of ours —

  “IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY!” roars Ron’s voice, and, as a great flaming chimaera bears down upon us, he and Hermione drag Goyle onto their broom and rise, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Malfoy clambered up behind me. I shudder when Malfoy wraps his arms around me.

  “The door, get to the door, the door!” screams Malfoy in my ear, and Harry speeds up, following Ron, Hermione, and Goyle through the billowing black smoke, we’re all hardly able to breathe: and all around us the last few objects unburned by the devouring flames are flung into the air, as the creatures of the cursed fire cast them high in celebration: cups and shields, a sparkling necklace, and an old, discolored tiara —

  “Harry!” I choke pointing out the diadem.

  “What are you doing, what are you doing, the door’s that way!” screams Malfoy, but Harry makes a hairpin swerve and dives. The diadem seems to fall in slow motion, turning and glittering as it drops toward the maw of a yawning serpent, and then Harry has it, caught it around his wrist —

  Harry swerved again as the serpent lunged at us; he soars upwards and straight towards the place where, I prayed, the door stands open: Ron, Hermione, and Goyle have vanished; Malfoy is screaming and holding me so tightly it hurts, causing me to tighten my grip on Harry. Then, through the smoke, I see a rectangular patch on the wall and the broom goes at it, and moments later clean air fills my lungs and we collide with the wall in the corridor beyond.

  Pain radiates through my wrist where I collide with the wall. Malfoy falls off the broom and lays facedown, gasping, coughing, and retching. Harry rolls over and sits up. I painfully still coughing raise myself up, wincing at the pain in my right wrist. The door to the Room of Requirement has vanished, and Ron and Hermione sit panting on the floor beside Goyle, who is still unconscious.

  “C-Crabbe,” chokes Malfoy as soon as he can speak. “C-Crabbe . . .”

  “He’s dead,” says Ron harshly.

  There is silence, apart from panting and coughing. Then a number of huge bangs shake the castle, and a great cavalcade of transparent figures gallop past on horses, their heads screaming with bloodlust under their arms. Harry and I stagger to our feet when the Headless Hunt have passed and look around. The battle is still going on all around us. I can hear more screams than those of the retreating ghosts. Panic flares within me. How is everyone? Please let them still be safe… I’m not sure that I could live without them…

  “Where’s Ginny?” Harry says sharply. “She was here. She was supposed to be going back into the Room of Requirement.”

  “Blimey, d’you reckon it’ll still work after that fire?” asks Ron, but he too gets to his feet, rubbing his chest and looking left and right. “Shall we split up and look — ?”

  “No,” says Hermione, getting to her feet too. Malfoy and Goyle remain slumped hopelessly on the corridor floor; neither of them have wands. “Let’s stick together. I say we go — Harry, what’s that on your arm?”

  “What? Oh yeah —”

  Harry pulls the diadem from his wrist and holds it up. It is still hot, blackened with soot, I move a little closer so that I can get a better look at it I am just able to make out the tiny words etched upon it: WIT BEYOND MEASURE IS MAN’S GREATEST TREASURE.

  A bloodlike substance, dark and tarry, seems to be leaking from the diadem. I watch as the diadem breaks apart in his hands, and as it does so, I think I hear the faintest, most distant scream of pain, echoing not from the grounds or the castle, but from the thing that has just fragmented in his fingers. I glance up at Harry and I see that he has noticed it to. I believe that it is just because I am closest to him that I am able to hear so.

  “It must have been Fiendfyre!” whimpers Hermione, her eyes on the broken pieces.

  “Sorry?” Harry says.

  “Fiendfyre — cursed fire — it’s one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never, ever have dared use it, it’s so dangerous — how did Crabbe know how to — ?”

  “Must’ve learned from the Carrows,” I say grimly.

  “Shame he wasn’t concentrating when they mentioned how to stop it, really,” says Ron, whose hair, like Hermione’s and mine, is singed, and whose face is blackened. “If he hadn’t tried to kill us all, I’d be quite sorry he was dead.”

  “But don’t you realize?” whispers Hermione. “This means, if we can just get the snake —”

  But she breaks off as yells and shouts and the unmistakable noises of dueling fill the corridor. I look around and my heart seems to fail: Death Eaters have penetrated Hogwarts. Fred and Percy have just backed into view, both of them dueling masked and hooded men.

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I run forward to help (I pull out Excalibur again as the strange feeling takes over me): Jets of light fly in every direction and the man dueling Percy backs off, fast: Then his hood slips and we see a high forehead and streaked hair —

  “Hello, Minister!” bellows Percy, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who drops his wand and claws at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort.   “Did I mention I’m resigning?”

  “You’re joking, Perce!” shouts Fred as the Death Eater he is battling collapses under the weight of three separate Stunning Spells (one reflected by my sword). Thicknesse has fallen to the ground with tiny spikes erupting all over him; he seems to be turning into some form of sea urchin. Fred looks at Percy with glee.

  The air explodes. We were grouped together, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, Percy, and I and the two Death Eaters at our feet, one Stunned, the other Transfigured; and in that fragment of a moment, when danger seems temporarily at bay, the world is rent apart. I feel myself flying through the air, and all I can do is hold as tightly as possible to Excalibur so I don’t lose it, and shield my head in my arms. I hear the screams and yells of my companions without a hope of knowing what happened to them —

  And then the world resolves itself into pain and semidarkness: I am half buried in the wreckage of a corridor that has been subjected to a terrible attack. Cold air tells me that the side of the castle has been blown away, and hot stickiness on my neck tells me that I am bleeding copiously somewhere. Then I hear a terrible cry that pulls at my insides.

  I crawl my way painfully over to the three redheaded men who comprise my family. My wrist is screaming pain and my damaged lungs are still struggling for breath when I make it over to them.

  “No — no — no!” someone is shouting. “No! Fred! No!”

  And Percy is shaking my brother, and Ron is kneeling beside them, Fred’s eyes stare glazed over with pain, stand out vividly against the chalky paleness of his skin. Ignoring my own wounds I place my hands upon the wound on his chest pumping blood and attempt to stop the flow.

  No… this is not how it ends. I refuse to let this be the end.


	24. The Elder Wand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 24- The Elder Wand

 

  The world definitely seems to have gone fuzzy. Part of me can’t believe that I am here pushing down on my older brother’s chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding on one of his injuries. Percy and Ron are still yelling at Fred to hold on, and all I can do is sit here and try to make sure that he doesn’t slip through my fingers.

  “Get down!” Harry suddenly shouts, as more curses fly through the night: He and Ron both grab Hermione and pull her to the floor, but Percy and I lay across Fred’s body, shielding him from further harm, and when Harry shouts, “Percy, Jamie, come on, we’ve got to move!” he shakes his head.

  “We can’t leave him Harry!” I shout.

  Hermione screams suddenly and I glance up long enough to see a giant spider crawl through the opening in the castle wall. Aragog’s descendants have joined the fight now. Harry, Hermione and Ron send jinxes and curses at the approaching spiders. It seems like they are going to be overwhelmed, when suddenly more spells are added in the air fighting back against unseen attackers and spiders.

  I shift my hands a little trying to stop another bleed when someone drops down to their knees beside me. I glance up and see a very pale Luka. There are steaks of blood on his face and one of his glasses lenses is broken almost all the way in half. Some of his hair is matted with blood as well.

  “Let me take over Jamie! Ariana will cover us with some help. We can move him safely! I know you’re needed elsewhere.” Luka says, deadly serious and despite the emotionally charged and chaotic scene he looks almost completely calm and in control. It strikes at this absolute horrible moment how much my brother has grown up— how much all of us have.

  Slowly I nod my head and in sync we move so that my hands leave Fred and Luka’s are in its place. Quickly I pick Excalibur back up and sheath it so that I can stick to my wand. I’m still unsure what exactly this power is, and honestly I’m not sure if I’m willing to mess with it right now.

  On the count of three Percy and I carefully and painfully drag Fred, with Luka keeping pressure on him, into the alcove here the suit of armor used to be. “Now go! We have this covered!” Luka shouts glaring at Percy and me.

  Reluctantly Percy and I pull away and I look to see Ariana and a few other kids with an adult or two battling off giant spiders and returning fire at curses. Ariana doesn’t look much better than Luka. There is a gash on her right cheek, and there is a makeshift bandage tied around her left thigh, and bruises that are visible on her face.

  I catch her eye briefly before I am pulled away by Harry. Her brown eyes are ablaze with fury and determination. All I can see is practically a demand that we end all of this now.

  Harry pulls me again and we take off after Ron and Hermione. Malfoy and Goyle have vanished, but at the end of the corridor, which is now full of dust and falling masonry, glass long gone from the windows, I see many people running backward and forward, whether friends or foes I cannot tell. Rounding the corner, Percy lets out a bull-like roar: “ROOKWOOD!” and sprints off in the direction of a tall man, who is pursuing a couple of students.

  “Harry, Jamie, in here!” Hermione screams.

  She has pulled Ron behind a tapestry: They seem to be wrestling together. I see that Hermione is trying to restrain Ron, to stop him running after Percy.

  “Listen to me — LISTEN, RON!”

  “I wanna help — I wanna kill Death Eaters —”

  His face is contorted, smeared with dust and smoke, and he is shaking with rage and grief of what can potentially happen to Fred.

  “Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please — Ron — we need the snake, we’ve got to kill the snake!” says Hermione.

  I can understand Ron’s pain and fury for I feel the same, but the shock of having to hold Fred, to try and keep him alive has shaken me enough that I can barely function. I can feel that my hands are coated in blood— Fred’s blood, and it sickens me, so I refuse to look at it.

  “We will fight!” Hermione says. “We’ll have to, to reach the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can end it!”

  She is crying too, and she wipes her face on her torn and singed sleeve as she speaks, but she takes great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping a tight hold on Ron, she turns to Harry.

  “You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry — look inside him!”

  Harry looks unsure for a second before he closes his eyes, and doesn’t move. I look at Ron and Hermione still shaking from everything that’s happened. I finally look down at my hands to see that the blood is finally starting to dry. I quickly try and wipe the blood off on the walls, but only succeed in opening up the skin on my hands and adding my own into the mix.

  With a gasp, Harry seems to come back to us.

  “He’s in the Shrieking Shack. The snake’s with him, it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He’s just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape.” Harry says focusing his gaze on us.

  “Voldemort’s sitting in the Shrieking Shack?” says Hermione, outraged. “He’s not — he’s not even fighting?”

  “He doesn’t think he needs to fight,” says Harry. “He thinks I’m going to go to him.”

  “But why?” I ask, my own voice beginning to sound foreign to me.

  “He knows I’m after Horcruxes — he’s keeping Nagini close beside him — obviously I’m going to have to go to him to get near the thing —”

  “Right,” says Ron, squaring his shoulders. “So you can’t go, that’s what he wants, what he’s expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione, and I’ll go and get it —”

  “I am going with you.” I state knowing going alone is suicide.

  Harry cuts across me.

  “You two stay here, I’ll go under the Cloak and I’ll be back as soon as I —”

  “No,” says Hermione, “it makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and —”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ron snarls at her.

  Before Hermione can get farther than “Ron, I’m just as capable —” the tapestry at the top of the staircase on which we stand is ripped open.

  “POTTER!”

  Two masked Death Eaters stand there, but even before their wands are fully raised, Hermione shouts, “Glisseo!”

  The stairs beneath our feet flatten into a chute and she, Harry, Ron, and I hurtle down it, unable to control our speed but so fast that the Death Eaters’ Stunning Spells fly far over our heads. We shoot through the concealing tapestry at the bottom and spin onto the floor, hitting the opposite wall.

  “Duro!” cries Hermione, pointing her wand at the tapestry, and there are two loud, sickening crunches as the tapestry turns to stone and the Death Eaters pursuing us crumple against it.

  “Get back!” shouts Ron, and he, Harry, Hermione, and I flatten ourselves against a door as a herd of galloping desks thunder past, shepherded by a sprinting Professor McGonagall. She appears not to notice us: Her hair has come down and there is a gash on her cheek. As she turns the corner, we hear her scream, “CHARGE!”

  “Harry, you get the Cloak on,” says Hermione. “Never mind us —”

  But Harry throws it over all four of us; large though we are, he seems to doubt anyone will see their disembodied feet through the dust that clogs the air, the falling stone, and the shimmer of spells.

  We run down the next staircase and find ourselves in a corridor full of duelers. The portraits on either side of the fighters are crammed with figures screaming advice and encouragement, while Death Eaters, both masked and unmasked, duel students and teachers. Dean has won himself a wand, for he is face-to-face with Dolohov, Parvati with Travers. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I raise our wands at once, ready to strike, but the duelers are weaving and darting around so much that there is a strong likelihood of hurting one of their own side if they cast curses.

  Even as we stand braced, looking for the opportunity to act, there comes a great “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” and, looking up, I see Peeves zooming over us, dropping Snargaluff pods down onto the Death Eaters, whose heads are suddenly engulfed in wriggling green tubers like fat worms.

  “Argh!”

  A fistful of tubers has hit the Cloak over Ron’s head; the slimy green roots are suspended improbably in midair as Ron tries to shake them loose.

  “Someone’s invisible there!” shouts a masked Death Eater, pointing.

  Dean makes the most of the Death Eater’s momentary distraction, knocking him out with a Stunning Spell; Dolohov attempts to retaliate and Parvati shoots a Body-Bind Curse at him.

  “LET’S GO!” Harry yells, and he, Ron, Hermione, and I gather the Cloak tightly around ourselves and pelt, heads down, through the midst of the fighters, slipping a little in pools of Snargaluff juice, towards the top of the marble staircase into the entrance hall.

  “I’m Draco Malfoy, I’m Draco, I’m on your side!”

  Draco is on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. I Stun the Death Eater as we pass: Malfoy looks around, beaming, for his savior, and Ron punches him from under the Cloak. Malfoy falls backward on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused.

  “And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yells.

  There are more duelers all over the stairs and in the hall, Death Eaters everywhere I look: Yaxley, close to the front doors, in combat with Flitwick, a masked Death Eater dueling Kingsley right beside them. Students run in every direction, some carrying or dragging injured friends. Harry directs a Stunning Spell towards the masked Death Eater; it misses but nearly hits Neville, who has emerged from nowhere brandishing armfuls of Venomous Tentacula, which loop itself happily around the nearest Death Eater and begin reeling him in.

  I have no time to be amazed at the scary resourcefulness of the plants.

  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I speed down the marble staircase: Glass shatters to our left, and the Slytherin hourglass that has recorded House points spill its emeralds everywhere, so that people slip and stagger as they run. Two bodies fall from the balcony overhead as they reached the ground, and a gray blur that I take for an animal speeds four-legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the fallen.

  “NO!” shrieks Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Fenrir Greyback is thrown backwards from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown. He hits the marble banisters and struggles to return to his feet. Then, with a bright white flash and a crack, a crystal ball falls on top of his head, and he crumples to the ground and does not move.

  “I have more!” shrieks Professor Trelawney from over the banisters. “More for any who want them! Here —”

  And with a movement like a tennis serve, she heaves another enormous crystal sphere from her bag, waves her wand through the air, and causes the ball to speed across the hall and smash through a window. At the same moment, the heavy wooden front doors burst open, and more of the gigantic spiders force their way into the entrance hall.

  Screams of terror rent the air: The fighters scatter and red and green jets of light fly into the midst of the oncoming monsters, which shudder and rear, more terrifying than ever.

  “How do we get out?” yells Ron over all the screaming but before either Harry, Hermione, or I can answer we are bowled aside: Hagrid has come thundering down the stairs, brandishing his flowery pink umbrella.

  “Don’t hurt ’em, don’t hurt ’em!” he yells.

  “HAGRID, NO!”

  Harry sprints out from under the Cloak, running bent double to avoid the curses illuminating the whole hall. Ron, Hermione, and I curse and attempt to follow after him.

  “HAGRID, COME BACK!”

  But we are not even halfway to Hagrid when I see it happen: Hagrid vanishes amongst the spiders, and with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement, they retreat under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid buried in their midst.

  “HAGRID!” Harry yells.

  I think I can make out an enormous arm waving from the midst of the spider swarm, but as we make chase after Harry who is chasing them, our way is impeded by a monumental foot, which swings down out of the darkness and makes the ground on which we stand shudder. I look up: A giant stands before Harry, twenty feet high, its head hidden in shadow, nothing but its treelike, hairy shins illuminated by light from the castle doors. With one brutal, fluid movement, it smashes a massive fist through an upper window, and glass rains down upon Harry, forcing him back under the shelter of the doorway.

  “Oh my — !” shrieks Hermione, as we catch up with Harry and gaze upwards at the giant now trying to seize people through the window above.

  “DON’T!” Ron yells, grabbing Hermione’s hand as she raises her wand. “Stun him and he’ll crush half the castle —”

  “HAGGER?”

  Grawp comes lurching around the corner of the castle; only now do I realize how truly Grawp is, indeed, an undersized giant. The gargantuan monster trying to crush people on the upper floors looks around and lets out a roar. The stone steps tremble as he stomps towards his smaller kin, and Grawp’s lopsided mouth falls open, showing yellow, half-brick-sized teeth; and then they launch themselves at each other with the savagery of lions.

  “RUN!” Harry roars; the night was full of hideous yells and blows as the giants wrestled, and he seizes my hand while Ron seizes Hermione’s and we tear down the steps into the grounds. We are halfway toward the forest before we are brought up short again.

  The air around us has frozen: my breath catches and solidifies in my already bruised chest. Shapes move out in the darkness, swirling figures of concentrated blackness, moving in a great wave towards the castle, their faces hooded and their breath rattling . . .

  Ron and Hermione close in beside us as the sounds of fighting behind us grows suddenly muted, deadened, because a silence only dementors can bring is falling thickly through the night.

  “Come on, Harry!” says Hermione’s voice from a very long way away. “Patronuses, Harry, come on!”

  I fumble with my own wand trying to concentrate on Ariana— anything to make this spell work. I see Ron’s silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; and I see Hermione’s otter twist in midair and fade, I manage to produce my own with a stuttered “Expecto Patronum”. A proud silver lioness prowls forward a few steps before fading away into almost nothing.

  And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soar past Harry, Ron, Hermione’s, and my heads: The dementors fall back before the creatures’ approach. Three more people have arrived out of the darkness to stand beside us, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

  “That’s right,” says Luna encouragingly, as if we are back in the Room of Requirement and this is simply spell practice for the D.A. “That’s right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . .”

  “Something happy?” Harry says, his voice cracked.

  “We’re all still here,” she whispers, “we’re still fighting. Come on, now . . .”

  Focusing on that fact alone Harry manages to finally produce a stag to help out with the rest.

  The dementors scatter in earnest, and immediately the night is mild again, but the sounds of the surrounding battle are loud in my ears.

  “Can’t thank you enough,” says Ron shakily, turning to Luna, Ernie, and Seamus, “you just saved —”

  With a roar and an earth-quaking tremor, another giant comes lurching out of the darkness from the direction of the forest, brandishing a club taller than any of us.

  “RUN!” Harry shouts again, but the rest of us need no telling: We all scatter, and not a second too soon, for next moment the creature’s vast foot has fallen exactly where we were standing. I look round: Ron, Hermione, and I are following Harry, but the other three have vanished back into the battle.

  “Let’s get out of range!” yells Ron as the giant swings its club again and its bellows echoed through the night, across the grounds where bursts of red and green light continue to illuminate the darkness.

  “The Whomping Willow,” says Harry, “go!”

  I sprint, half believing I can outdistance death itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness all around us, and the sound of the lake crashing like the sea, and the creaking of the Forbidden Forest though the night is windless; through grounds that seem themselves to have risen in rebellion, I run faster than I have ever moved in my life, and I come across the great tree seconds after Harry, the Willow that protects the secret at its roots with whiplike, slashing branches.

  Panting and gasping, I slow down, skirting the Willow’s swiping branches, peering through the darkness towards its thick trunk, trying to see the single knot in the bark of the old tree that will paralyze it. Ron and Hermione catch up, Hermione so out of breathe she cannot speak.

  “How — how’re we going to get in?” pants Ron. “I can — see the place — if we just had — Crookshanks again —”

  “Crookshanks?” wheezes Hermione, bent double, clutching her chest. “Are you a wizard, or what?”

  “Oh — right — yeah —”

  Ron looks around, then directs his wand at a twig on the ground and says, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The twig flies up from the ground, spins through the air as if caught by a gust of wind, then zooms directly at the trunk through the Willow’s ominously swaying branches. It jabs at a place near the roots, and at once, the writhing tree becomes still.

  “Perfect!” pants Hermione.

  “Wait.” Harry says suddenly looking unsure of himself and our goal of coming here in the first place.

  “Harry, we’re coming, just get in there!” I say, pushing him forward.

  Harry wriggles into the earthy passage hidden in the tree’s roots. When I go in it is a much tighter squeeze than it was the last time we entered it. The tunnel is low-ceilinged: We have to double up to move through it nearly four years previously; now there is nothing for it but to crawl. Harry goes first, his wand illuminated. We move in silence, my gaze fixed upon Hermione in front of me, and Harry’s swinging beam of the wand held in his fist.

  At last the tunnel begins to slope upwards and I see a sliver of light ahead. Hermione tugs at his ankle.

  “The Cloak!” she whispers. “Put the Cloak on!”

  With difficulty Harry drags it over himself, murmurs, “Nox,” extinguishing his wandlight, and continues on his hands and knees, as silently as possible. All the crawling isn’t good for my injured wrist. It throbs and aches in protest at being continually abused in such a way.

  And then we hear voices coming from the room directly ahead of us, only slightly muffled by the fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel has been blocked up by what looks like an old crate. Harry edges right up to the opening and peers through a tiny gap left between crate and wall.

  We all stay behind him just listening to what is going on.

  “. . . my Lord, their resistance is crumbling —” Snape’s voice comes through clear.

  “— and it is doing so without your help,” says Voldemort in his high, clear voice.   “Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there . . . almost.”

  “Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please.”

  “I have a problem, Severus,” says Voldemort softly.

  “My Lord?” says Snape.

  “Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?” Voldemort asks. I am confused about what he is referring to.

  “My — my Lord?” says Snape blankly. “I do not understand. You — you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand.”

  Oh— the Elder Wand is not working for him properly.

  “No,” says Voldemort. “I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand . . . no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago.”

  Voldemort’s tone is musing, calm. I highly doubt that he is actually so. Then again you never know with madmen.

  “No difference,” says Voldemort again.

  “I have thought long and hard, Severus . . . Do you know why I have called you back from the battle?”

  “No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter.”

  “You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come.”

  “But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by one other than yourself —”

  “My instructions to my Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends — the more, the better — but do not kill him.”

  “But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable.”

  “My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But — let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can —”

  “I have told you, no!” says Voldemort. I am barely breathing at this point. “My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

  “My Lord, there can be no question, surely — ?”

  “— but there is a question, Severus. There is.” Voldemort says. “Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?”

  “I — I cannot answer that, my Lord.” Snape says faltering slightly.

  “Can’t you?”

  “My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another’s wand. I did so, but Lucius’s wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

  “I — I have no explanation, my Lord.” Snape says.

  “I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

  I grip my hands into fists tightly no matter the pain trying to stop the feeling of the power— the anger from building up and revealing our location.

  “My Lord — let me go to the boy —”

  “All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here,” says Voldemort, his voice soft, “wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner . . . and I think I have the answer.”

  Snape does not speak.

  “Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.”

  “My Lord —”

  “The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine.”

  “My Lord!” Snape protests.

  “It cannot be any other way,” says Voldemort. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last.”

  It is silent for a moment before there is a terrible scream. I watch as Harry jerks a little bit in front of me, getting a front row seat to whatever horror is befalling our old potion master. Then there is a thump which sounds like a body hitting the floor.

  “I regret it.” says Voldemort coldly.

  We wait a few seconds before Harry seems to burst into action. “Harry!” breathes Hermione behind him, but he is already pointed his wand at the crate blocking his view. It lifts an inch into the air and drifts sideways silently. As quietly as he can, he pulls himself up into the room.

  Slowly the rest of us follow until the four of us are all in the Shack. I step closer to Harry and Snape watching as our once most hated professor pulls Harry down towards him.

  A terrible gurgling noise issues from Snape’s throat.

  “Take . . . it . . . Take . . . it . . .”

  Something more than blood is leaking from Snape. Silvery blue, neither gas nor liquid, it gushes from his mouth and his ears and his eyes.

  A flask conjured from thin air, is thrust into Harry’s shaking hands by Hermione. Harry lifts the silvery substance into it with his wand. When the flask is full to the brim, and Snape looks as though there is no blood left in him, his grip on Harry’s robes slackens.

  “Look . . . at . . . me . . .” he whispers.

  Harry and Snape’s eyes meet in a solemn stare, before Snape’s darken. The hand holding Harry’s thuds to the floor, and Snape moves no more.


	25. The Flaw in the Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 25- The Flaw in the Plan

 

  Harry remains kneeling at Snape’s side, simply staring down at him, until quite suddenly a high, cold voice spoke so close to us that Harry jumps to his feet, the flask gripped tightly in his hands.

  Voldemort’s voice reverberates from the walls and floor, and I realize that he is talking to Hogwarts and to all the surrounding area, that the residents of Hogsmeade and all those still fighting in the castle will hear him as clearly as if he stands beside them, his breath on the back of their necks, a deathblow away.

  “You have fought,” says the high, cold voice, “valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.”

  “Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.”

  “Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately.”

  “You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.”

  “I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

  Ron, Hermione, and I shake our heads frantically, looking at Harry.

  “Don’t listen to him,” says Ron.

  “It’s what he wants.” I put in.

  “It’ll be all right,” says Hermione wildly. “Let’s — let’s get back to the castle, if he’s gone to the forest we’ll need to think of a new plan —”

  She glances at Snape’s body then hurries back to the tunnel entrance. Ron follows her. Harry gathers up the Invisibility Cloak, then looked down at Snape. I grab his hand and tug him back towards the tunnel before following Ron myself.

  We crawl back through the tunnel, none of us talking. I’m not sure how I feel about Snape’s death. He had been a horrible teacher and person to us for so long, but the way he died… covered in all those snakebites from Nagini… no one deserves to die that way.

  Small bundles seem to litter the lawn at the front of the castle. It can only be an hour or so from dawn, yet it is pitch-black. The four of us hurry towards the stone steps. A lone clog, the size of a small boat, lays abandoned in front of us. There is no other sign of Grawp or of his attacker.

  The castle is unnaturally silent. There are no flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts. The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall are stained with blood. Emeralds are still scattered all over the floor, along with pieces of marble and splintered wood. Part of banisters have been blown away.

  “Where is everyone?” whispers Hermione.

  Ron leads the way to the Great Hall. I stop along with Harry in the doorway.

  The House tables are gone and the room is crowded. The survivors stand in groups, their arms around each other’s necks. The injured are being treated upon the raised platform by Madam Pomfrey and a group of helpers. Firenze is amongst the injured; his flank poured blood and he shakes where he lay, unable to stand.

  The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall. I cannot see Fred thankfully my family is waiting nearby the platform looking pale and worried. George has never looked so serious before; Mum is sobbing into Dad’s chest, her body shaking Dad strokes her hair while tears cascade down his cheeks.

  Without a word to Harry, or me Ron and Hermione walk away. I see Hermione approach Ginny, whose face is swollen and blotchy, and hug her. Ron joins Bill, Fleur, and Percy, who flings an arm around Ron’s shoulders. As Ginny and Hermione move closer to the rest of the family, I finally have a clear view of the bodies they were blocking: Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling.

  We have lost so many. Tears start to pour down my cheeks. I look up again and I see Luka standing with the family but looking worriedly at me. No longer able to stand here any longer I make my way into the Hall and practically cling to my brother when I see him.

  “Thank Merlin you’re okay.” Luka whispers into my hair. A shudder runs through me and I pull back slightly from him to search his face for some sort of indication that Fred is going to be all right.

  “Madam Pomfrey got to him… he’s not in good shape, but he’s hanging in there. She won’t let any of us— not even Mum go close to him.” Luka says, and I let out a large breath of air I didn’t even realize that I was holding.

  “Where’s Ariana?” I suddenly worried about the state of my girlfriend.

  “She held the Death Eaters and spiders back from us up until her leg gave out. She got a nasty shrapnel wound in her thigh from an exploding window earlier on. We tried to bandage it the best we could, and she insisted that she continue on. Something about if you weren’t going to stop fighting, then there was no way in Merlin saggy pants that she was going to.” Luka explains.

  A slight smile forms on my lips hearing that, but I still don’t know if she is okay or not.

  “Is she—” I’m cut off by Luka simply pointing up at the platform, where I can see a disheveled blond girl sitting up and arguing with Professor McGonagall. Relief floods through me, and the surge of warmth that accompanies with the necklace helps as well.

  Part of me wants to race straight to her, grab her, and never let go, but I know that I need to check in with my family. They need to know I’m all right, and I need to know the same.

  I grab Luka’s hand and pull him back to our family. As soon as we come moderately close to Mum and Dad, our mother detaches herself from Dad’s arms and flings her arms around both my brother and me. Her grip on us is fiercely tight. “Oh thank Merlin! You three saved him… you saved him…” She sobs clutching the two of us even tighter. I can feel Dad joining the hug from my side, bringing my head to rest on his chest.

  Tears form in my eyes for I didn’t save him. Luka and Percy did, and Fred might still not make it out of all of this alive. We all might still not make it out of this alive. When Mum and Dad do finally let go it is followed by hugs from Bill, Fleur, Percy (which is odd for he never hugs), Ron, Ginny, and then finally George. George hugs Luka and I so tight, that I’m afraid that he is almost going to crack a rib.

  “I— I don’t…” George says his voice catching in his throat.

  “You would do the same for us.” I say softly, knowing that this family would literally die for one another.

  “Besides, we know what its like to be twins… I couldn’t imagine life without Jamie. Just as I am sure that you can’t imagine life without Fred.” Luka says looking entirely serious. That causes tears to fall down George’s face and the bone-splintering hug starts up again.

  We break apart as there is a great sob coming from Mum. I spin around wildly worried that something bad has happened to Fred. I see that Mum is holding Ariana in a crushing grip, her crying starting up anew. Luckily Dad’s face looks relieved. Mum then quickly lets go of Ariana and hurries over to us.

  “Fred is going to make it. He’s stable now so we can go and see him.” She says, and before I can even blink she and George are hurrying up the platform and I watch as they go kneel down next to a person lying on the back far side.

  I deflate at the news and my knees start to buckle.  Before I call fall though there are two pairs of arms keeping me upright and steady. I look up to see Luka on my one side and Ariana on the other. “Hey now, I thought that I was supposed to be the one with the bum leg.” She says cheekily.

  The pair of them carefully guide me over to a chair and I sink down onto it gratefully. I think that the enormity of this whole situation is really starting to get to me.

  “Is Fred really okay?” I ask looking up at Ariana as she pulls over another chair toward me.

  “When I was up there getting discharged he was. He was awake but pale. He even managed to say that I shouldn’t be up there for a scratch to the leg. Only really wounded warriors were allowed.” Ariana shakes her head, a small fond smile forming on her face. That definitely sounds like Fred.

  I glance down at my hands and see that they’re still stained a rusty color from the dried blood on them. Luka coms back over to us with some water and a cloth. He hands them to Ariana, before sinking down onto the ground between the two of us. I glance around for another chair, but see that they’re mostly used by wounded people.

  “I’m good Jamie. I’ve been lucky so far. Looks like all those lessons in the D.A. paid off.” Luka says looking grimly proud. I nod my head, wincing slightly as Ariana starts to wipe off my hands. The water feels good against my skin. I can’t remember the last time that I have been really clean. This doesn’t even count, but at least I don’t have to have a permanent reminder of Fred’s injury on me anymore.

  “Snape’s dead.” I blurt out suddenly, not a hundred percent sure why I am telling them this. Luka and Ariana’s eyes shoot up to me shocked.

  “The bat finally got it.” Ariana says nodding grimly.

  “How’d it happen?” Luka asks softly, almost as if he’s afraid of the answer. I glance and see that my brother’s lens is still broken. I raise my wand and point it at him.

  “Oculus Reparo,” Luka’s glasses mend themselves. “Voldemort set Nagini on him.” I say softly. Ariana’s face blanches of color and Luka coughs, covering his mouth.

  “Death by snake. Rather ironic for a Slytherin.” Ariana says trying to run the rag under my finger nails now.

  “Crabbe is dead as well. Fiend Fire got him, he cast it as well.” I relay letting them know of the casualties that I have seen, not really wanting to talk about what I do need to get to.

  “Serves the bastard right. He got too much entertainment out of torturing first years.” Luka growls clasping his knees so tightly that his fingers go white.

  I close my eyes not wanting to ask the question that has been niggling at the back of my mind ever since I’ve had a chance to breathe.

  “H-have you seen A-Augustus?” I ask my voice breaking uncertainly. Luka and Ariana look at me sharply, and I squirm in my seat, not even Ariana linking our fingers together brings me comfort.

  “Why?” Ariana asks. Luka’s keen eyes are staring at me in a way that I know that he’s searching me for the answer.

  “How much did you guys hear about Malfoy Manor?” I ask softly. Ariana and Luka share looks with each other.

  “Just that they had you guys captured, and that when Voldemort came to see— well you guys had escaped.” Ariana says beginning to carefully look at me as well.

  “Well… a lot more happened than that.” I say softly. “Bellatrix and A-Augustus were there… Harry, Ron, and Dean were taken to the cellar… but Hermione and I—” I choke on the lump in my throat. This is the first time that I am attempting to talk about the subject, and it is much harder than I thought it was going to be.

  “Bellatrix took Mione— and he came for me. I— I learned why he killed our parents… our family. He-he wanted something… a power from Arthur that he could only get by seemingly being the last Pendragon alive. You can only get it from your blood— he said he killed you!” I cry anguished, looking at my brother, tears in my eyes, and dripping down my cheeks.

  “Wha— I’m not dead Jamie.” Luka says suddenly flustered.

  “I know that now but not then! We were completely cut off. I could only feel Ariana through this bloody necklace!” I say beginning to get worked up.

  “What happened Jamie?” Ariana asks her face eerily hard and expressionless, making me nervous.

  “H-he wanted to be the only one left… he— he…” I falter unable to actually say it.

  “He tortured you didn’t he.” Luka says flatly. I wince at the word, and my body begins to tremble violently.

  “That bastard I’ll kill him!” Luka shouts jumping to his feet in fury.

  “HE DID WHAT TO MY CHILD?”

  I jump at the sound of the outraged roar that emits from my mother. Ariana grabs me more fully, seeing my panicked state and brings me back down and into her so that I am practically sitting on Ariana’s lap.

  Mum is standing in front of the three of us with a truly ferocious look on her face. “What did he do Jamie?” She asks seemingly reigning in her anger for a few seconds. I am truly scared on how to answer her.

  “T-the C-Cruciatus a-and he had a k-k-knife…” I whimper watching my mother’s face turn a truly startling shade of red almost darker than her hair.

  “HE IS DEAD! THAT MAN IS DEAD!” Mum says, and I watch as Dad hurried over to her to try and calm her down. Only the opposite happens when he learns what has been done to me.

  “Just wait until the battle Arthur! Just you wait, none of my babies will be hurt again!” Mum swears, and shockingly Dad nods his head in agreement.

  “There is no forgiving that.” Dad agrees.

  I glance at Luka and see that the livid look is still on his face, and that his pacing has grown more agitated. I chance a glance at Ariana and see that she has buried her face into my hair. I can feel her slightly shudder against me.

  “Ari?” I whisper. Ariana pulls away from me and I can see the tears on her cheeks. Quickly I reach up and wipe the tears away.

  “I almost lost you… and I didn’t even realize.” She whispers. I press my forehead against hers and close my eyes.

  “I’m here though.” I say softly.

  “I know that, and I’m going to make sure that it stays that way Pendragon. You and I are going to stay glued to my side during this battle. There is no way I am going to lose you now.” Ariana vows. My throat goes dry with the strength of her statement.

  Not knowing anything else to do, I nod and press a quick kiss to her lips. There is a small smile on her lips when we pull away.

  The good atmosphere doesn’t last for long though.

  A magically magnified voice breaks through the relative stillness of the Hall.

  “Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.” Voldemort’s cold icy voice reverberates around the Great Hall.

  “The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will members of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

  Panicked cries break out around the hall. I slide out of Ariana’s lap and pull her to her feet. We follow Luka and my parents to meet up with everyone who are streaming to the entrance of the castle. My heart is lodged into my throat. Harry can’t be dead. He wouldn’t have gone and done something like this. Who am I kidding? Harry would definitely go on and do something stupid like this.

  Ariana and I meet up with Hermione and Ron who are both as pale as I assume that I am. How could we have all been so stupid? We were so wrapped up in our own worries about our family that we forgot to look for Harry.

  Professor McGonagall is the first one out of the castle.

  “NO!”

  The scream is the terrible because I never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound. The open doorway of the castle filling with people, as the survivors of the battle come out onto the front steps to face our vanquishers and see the truth of Harry’s death for ourselves.

  There is a line of Death Eaters across the courtyard from us. Hagrid is with them in chains holding the body of Harry.

  “NO!”

  “No!”

  “No!”

  “Harry! HARRY!”

  I scream out my horror, closely followed by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Ginny’s cry sounds so heartbroken that it tears an even deeper wound into my already devastated psyche.

  Our cries act like a trigger; the crowd of survivors take up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters, until —

  “SILENCE!” cries Voldemort, and there is a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence is forced upon us all. I tighten my grip on Ariana. This is the end. There is nothing left for us to do but fight to the best of our ability. If we can get Nagini still, we can possibly end this whole nightmare. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”

  I watched with tears in my eyes as Hagrid lays Harry down at Voldemort’s feet judging by the shininess of Hagrid’s face he has been crying as well.

  “You see?” says Voldemort, striding back and forth near where Harry lays. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

  “He beat you!” yells Ron, and the charm breaks, and the defenders of Hogwarts are shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguishes our voices once more.

  My voice is beginning to hurt from yelling abuse at the people who killed one of my best friends in the entire world.

  “He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” says Voldemort, and there is relish in his voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save himself —”

  But Voldemort breaks off as we fight back against his lies: Neville breaks out of the crowd and charges out at Voldemort. There is a scuffle and a shout, then another bang, a flash of light, and a grunt of pain. I watch with gritted teeth as Neville hits the ground, Disarmed, Voldemort throwing his wand aside and laughing.

  “And who is this?” he says in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

  Bellatrix gives a delighted laugh.

  “It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”

  “Ah, yes, I remember,” says Voldemort, looking down at Neville who is struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man’s-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” Voldemort asks Neville, who stands facing him, his empty hands curled in fists.

  “So what if I am?” says Neville loudly.

  “You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

  “I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” says Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouts, and there is an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s Silencing Charms seems unable to hold. I have never seen Neville like this before, but it suits him, and pride swells inside me for my friend.

  “Very well,” says Voldemort, and I hear more danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most powerful curse. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he says quietly, “be it.”

I watch Voldemort wave his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looks like a misshapen bird flies through the half light and lands in Voldemort’s hand. He shakes the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangles, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.

  “There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” says Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”

  He points his wand at Neville, who grows rigid and still, then forces the hat onto Neville’s head, so that it slips down below his eyes. There are movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as one, the Death Eaters raise their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.

  “Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” says Voldemort, and with a flick of his wand, he causes the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.

  “Neville!” I shout never letting go of Ariana.

  Screams split the dawn, and Neville is aflame, rooted to the spot, unable to move, and I can’t bear it. We have to do something!

  And then many things happen at the same moment.

  We hear uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounds like hundreds of people come swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelt towards the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the same time, Grawp comes lumbering around the side of the castle and yells, “HAGGER!” His cry is answered by roars from Voldemort’s giants: They run at Grawp like bull elephants, making the earth quake.   Then come hooves and the twangs of bows, and arrows are suddenly falling amongst the Death Eaters, who break ranks, shouting their surprise.

  In one swift, fluid motion, Neville breaks free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hat falls off him and he draws from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle —

  The slash of the silver blade cannot be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and yet it seems to draw every eye. With a single stroke Neville slices off the great snake’s head, which spins high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall, and Voldemort’s mouth is open in a scream of fury that nobody can hear, and the snake’s body thuds to the ground at his feet —

  I can’t believe it. Neville killed Nagini… he killed the last Horcrux! Ariana finally releases my hand recognizing that it is now time to fight. I draw Excalibur feeling the strong sensation of rage filling my body. They killed Harry.

  “HARRY!” Hagrid shouts. “HARRY — WHERE’S HARRY?”

  Chaos reigns. The charging centaurs are scattering the Death Eaters, everyone is fleeing the giants’ stamping feet, and nearer and nearer thunder the reinforcements that have come from who knows where; I see great winged creatures soaring around the heads of Voldemort’s giants, thestrals and Buckbeak the hippogriff scratching at their eyes while Grawp punches and pummeled them; and now the wizards, defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike, are being forced back into the castle.

  Any Death Eater that crosses my path meets the fiery steel of my blade, their life pouring out of them. The sight is shocking, but I am detached as I watch them burn from the fire afterwards until they stop moving and are charred. Ariana is flanking me firing curses and casting shields to protect my back as we push forward into the castle a two-person destruction team.

  I glance up from the current Death Eater while pulling Excalibur out of their torso to see Voldemort making his way into the Great Hall.

  He is still screaming instructions to his followers as he sends curses flying left and right. I focus my attention back onto the fight in front of me watching as a well-aimed curse from Ariana hits a retreating Death Eater square on.

  And now there are more, even more people storming up the front steps, and I see Charlie Weasley overtaking Horace Slughorn, who is still wearing his emerald pajamas. They seem to have returned at the head of what looked like the families and friends of every Hogwarts student who have remained to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners of Hogsmeade. The centaurs Bane, Ronan, and Magorian burst into the hall with a great clatter of hooves, as behind us the door that leads to the kitchens is blasted off its hinges.

  The house-elves of Hogwarts swarm into the entrance hall, screaming and waving carving knives and cleavers, and at their head, the locket of Regulus Black bouncing on his chest, is Kreacher, his bullfrog’s voice audible even above this din: “Fight! Fight! Fight for my Master, defender of house-elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!”

  They are hacking and stabbing at the ankles and shins of Death Eaters, their tiny faces alive with malice, and everywhere I look Death Eaters are folding under sheer weight of numbers, overcome by spells, dragging arrows from wounds, stabbed in the leg by elves, or else simply attempting to escape, but swallowed by the oncoming horde.

  Undeterred by this Ariana and I fight our way into the Great Hall covered in cuts, and wielding a blood soaked blade encased in blue flame.

  Voldemort is in the center of the battle, and he is striking and smiting all within reach. The hall is becoming crowded with the sheet amount of people fighting in it now.

  I look up in time to see Yaxley slammed to the floor by George and Lee Jordan, Dolohov fall with a scream at Flitwick’s hands, Walden Macnair thrown across the room by Hagrid, hit the stone wall opposite, and slide unconscious to the ground. I see Ron and Neville bringing down Fenrir Greyback, Aberforth Stunning Rookwood, Arthur and Percy flooring Thicknesse, and Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy running through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, screaming for their son.

  Voldemort is now dueling McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley all at once, and there is cold hatred in his face as they weave and duck around him, unable to finish him —

  I parry a blow clumsily thrown at me from a Death Eater Ariana recently disarmed, and quickly slice across his stomach not caring to watch as the flames do the rest of the work.

  “I’LL KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MY SISTER!” My head shoots up at the familiar voice. A couple hundred feet away Luka is brandishing his wand at a bloodied Augustus. His long blond hair streaked with blood, and matted at one side. He is cloaked in Death Eater robes, and looks murderously at my brother.

  “I’ll make your death quick boy, unlike your sisters! You are too much like your father for me to be bothered with.” Augustus snarls. I’m shocked back into the present when Ariana casts a shield charm in front of me, and curses the approaching Death Eater.

  “Thanks.” I pant, turning my gaze back to Luka and Augustus, unable to look away. Ariana joins me now that there is no immediate danger and we watch while keeping an eye out for another foe.

  The spell work being traded between Augustus and Luka is incredible. The speed in which the two of them are fighting and dodging is insane. I never realized before that Luka was this good at spell work, then again I have missed an entire year of schooling.

  I can tell that the longer the fight takes the more frustrated Augustus gets. “You’re not used to fighting people who are prepared for you are you?” Luka shouts twirling around a killing curse, and firing back at Augustus. The comment only makes our uncle snarl in anger and redouble his efforts to kill Luka. For a second I am worried, but then Luka rolls out of the way of a curse so fast, and returns fire with his own and the streak of red light hits Augustus right in the head.

  There is a surprised look on his face, before he crumples to the ground, not moving. Luka stands there for a moment looking still enraged before he slumps slightly, and moves on to another fight, no more time needing to be wasted on that man. I’m brought back into the fight around me when I manage to catch a fleeing Death Eater, and slice his arm, setting him alight and into the path of Ariana’s curse.

  A pained scream breaks through the crowd and I see the enraged face of Bellatrix as she notices that Augustus her boyfriend is gone.

  Bellatrix is still fighting too, fifty yards away from Voldemort, and like her master she duels three at once: Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling their hardest, but Bellatrix is equal to them, and my attention is diverted as a Killing Curse shoots so close to Ginny that she misses death by an inch —

   “NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!”

  Mum throws off her cloak as she runs, freeing her arms. Bellatrix spins on the spot, roaring with laughter at the sight of her new challenger. I grip my sword tighter in fear and anger about the situation but unable to do nothing but watch with Ariana and many others, knowing that a sword would do no good in this situation.

  “OUT OF MY WAY!” shouts Mum to the three girls, and with a swipe of her wand she begins to duel. I watch with terror and elation as Mum’s wand slashes and twirls, and Bellatrix Lestrange’s smile falters and becomes a snarl. Jets of light fly from both wands, the floor around the witches’ feet become hot and cracked; both women are fighting to kill.

  “No!” Mum cries as a few students run forward, trying to come to her aid. “Get back! Get back! She is mine!”

  Hundreds of people now line the walls, watching the two fights, Voldemort and his three opponents, Bellatrix and Mum. This is insane I should be doing something, but the sudden feeling of Ariana’s hand in mine, not being burned by the blue falmes encasing it, settles me some. Ariana looks worried as well, but willing to let others handle the situation right now. That’s when I realize that Ariana is just as worried for McGonagall as she must be for my mother.

  “What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you?” taunts Bellatrix, as mad as her master, capering as Molly’s curses dance around her. “When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?” I realize that Bellatrix must think that Fred is dead, when he is indeed actually alive at the moment, or at least hopefully so still.

  “You — will — never — touch — our — children — again!” screams Mum.

  Bellatrix laughs, the same exhilarated.

  Mum’s curse soars beneath Bellatrix’s outstretched arm and hits her squarely in the chest, directly over her heart.

  Bellatrix’s gloating smile freezes, her eyes seem to bulge: For the tiniest space of time she knows what has happened, and then she topples, and the watching crowd roars, and Voldemort screams. I have never been more impressed or proud to call that woman mother, as I am this moment.

   Everything is not good though. McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn blast backward, flailing and writhing through the air, as Voldemort’s fury at the fall of his last, best lieutenant explodes with the force of a bomb. Voldemort raises his wand and directs it at Mum.

  “Protego!” roars a voice that sounds oddly like Harry, and a Shield Charm expands in the middle of the Hall, and Voldemort stares around for the source and suddenly Harry appears out of thin out from under the invisibility cloak.

  The yells of shock, the cheers, the screams on every side of “Harry!” “HE’S ALIVE!” are stifled at once. I grip Ariana’s hand tightly, my heart filling with joy at the appearance of my friend who has in fact not died. The crowd is afraid, and silence falls abruptly and completely as Voldemort and Harry look at each other, and begin, at the same moment, to circle each other.

  “I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry says loudly, and in the total silence his voice carries like a trumpet call. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

  Voldemort hisses.

  “Potter doesn’t mean that,” he says, his red eyes wide. “That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?”

  “Nobody,” says Harry simply. “There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good . . .”

  “One of us?” jeers Voldemort, and his whole body is taut and his red eyes stare, a snake that is about to strike. “You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?”

  “Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?” asks Harry. They are still moving sideways, both of them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other. “Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn’t defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?”

  “Accidents!” screams Voldemort, but still he does not strike, and the watching crowd is frozen as if Petrified and of the hundreds in the Hall, nobody seems to breathe but them. “Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!”

  “You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,” says Harry as they circle, and stare into each other’s eyes, green into red. “You won’t be able to kill any of them ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people —”

  “But you did not!”

  “— I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them. You don’t learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?”

  “You dare —”

  “Yes, I dare,” says Harry. “I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?”

  Voldemort does not speak, but prowls in a circle.

  “Is it love again?” says Voldemort, his snake’s face jeering. “Dumbledore’s favorite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter — and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?”

  “Just one thing,” says Harry, and still they circle each other, wrapped in each other, held apart by nothing but the last secret.

  “If it is not love that will save you this time,” says Voldemort, “you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?”

  “I believe both,” says Harry, and I see shock flit across the snakelike face, though it is instantly dispelled; Voldemort begins to laugh, and the sound is more frightening than his screams; humorless and insane, it echoes around the silent Hall.

  “You think you know more magic than I do?” he says. “Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?”

  “Oh, he dreamed of it,” says Harry, “but he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you’ve done.”

  “You mean he was weak!” screams Voldemort. “Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!”

  “No, he was clever than you,” says Harry, “a better wizard, a better man.”

  “I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!”

  I feel Ariana wince beside me, and tighten her grip on my hand.

  “You thought you did,” says Harry, “but you were wrong.”

  For the first time, the watching crowd stirs as the hundreds of people around the walls draw breath as one. Ariana glances at me and I shrug helplessly. Harry hasn’t explained any of this to me before.

  “Dumbledore is dead!” Voldemort hurls the words at Harry as though they will cause him unendurable pain. “His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle, I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!”

  “Yes, Dumbledore’s dead,” says Harry calmly, “but you didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant.”

  “What childish dream is this?” says Voldemort, but still he does not strike, and his red eyes do not waver from Harry’s.

  “Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” says Harry. “Snape was Dumbledore’s, Dumbledore’s from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it because of the thing you can’t understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?”

  Voldemort does not answer. They continue to circle each other like wolves about to tear each other apart.

  “Snape’s Patronus was a doe,” says Harry, “the same as my mother’s, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realized,” he says as he sees Voldemort’s nostrils flare, “he asked you to spare her life, didn’t he?”

  “He desired her, that was all,” sneers Voldemort, “but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him —”

  “Of course he told you that,” says Harry, “but he was Dumbledore’s spy from the moment you threatened her, and he’s been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!”

  Ariana leans in closer to me upon hearing more about the last moments of her grandfather’s death. I can feel her trembling slightly, and I grip her tighter.

  “It matters not!” shrieks Voldemort, who has followed every word with rapt attention, but now lets out a cackle of mad laughter. “It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape’s supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand!”

  “Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy — I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, is truly mine! Dumbledore’s last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!”

  “Yeah, it did,” says Harry. “You’re right. But before you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what you’ve done . . . Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle . . .”

  “What is this?”

  Of all the things that Harry has said to him, beyond any revelation or taunt, nothing has shocked Voldemort like this.

  “It’s your one last chance,” says Harry, “it’s all you’ve got left . . . I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise . . . Be a man . . . try . . . Try for some remorse . . .”

  “You dare — ?” says Voldemort again.

  “Yes, I dare,” says Harry, “because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on you, Riddle.”

  Voldemort’s hand is trembling on the Elder Wand, and Harry grips Draco’s very tightly.

  “That wand still isn’t working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore.”

  “He killed —”

  “Aren’t you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand’s power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!”

  “But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!” Voldemort’s voice shakes with malicious pleasure. “I stole the wand from its last master’s tomb! I removed it against its last master’s wishes! Its power is mine!”

  “You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t make it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard . . . The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance . . .”

  Voldemort’s chest rises and falls rapidly.

  “The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.”

  Blank shock shows in Voldemort’s face for a moment, but then it is gone. I can’t believe that Malfoy had been the true owner of the most powerful wand in the world this whole time, and he didn’t even know it. Then again I’m sure no one would realize it in a situation like that.

  “But what does it matter?” he says softly. “Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel on skill alone . . . and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy . . .”

  “But you’re too late,” says Harry. “You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him.”

  Harry twitches the hawthorn wand, and the eyes of everyone in the Hall upon it.

  “So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?” says Harry. “Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does . . . I am the true master of the Elder Wand.”

  A red-gold glow bursts suddenly across the enchanted sky above us as an edge of dazzling sun appears over the sill of the nearest window. The light hits both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s is suddenly a flaming blur. I hear the high voice shriek as Harry too yells his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand:

  “Avada Kedavra!”

  “Expelliarmus!”

  The bang is like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupt between them, at the dead center of the circle they have been treading, marked the point where the spells collide. I see Voldemort’s green jet meet Harry’s spell, see the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air towards the master it will not kill, who has come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, catches the wand in his free hand as Voldemort falls backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hits the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort is dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stands with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.

  One shivering second of silence, the shock of the moment suspended: and then the tumult breaks around as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rend the air. The fierce new sun dazzles the windows as we thunder towards him, and the first to reach him are Ron, Hermione, and I, and it is our arms that are wrapped around him, our incomprehensible shouts that deafened him. Then Ginny, Neville, Luna, Ariana, and Luka are there, and then all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and I cannot hear a word that anyone is shouting, nor tell whose hands are seizing Harry, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, all of us determined to touch the Boy Who Lived, the reason it is over at last —

  The sun rises steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazes with life and light. Harry is an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration. They want him there with them, their leader and symbol, their savior and their guide. He must speak to the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in from every quarter as the morning draws on; that the Imperiused up and down the country have come back to themselves, that Death Eaters are fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban are being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt has been named temporary Minister of Magic . . .

  All of this news is at once good and overwhelming. Now that this is over, I need to be with Harry, be with Ron and Hermione, and just appreciate that this whole adventure is finally over. I once had thought that we were never going to make it out of here alive, yet here we are on a brand new morning, with seemingly limitless possibilities ahead of us.

  We move Voldemort’s body and lay it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who have died fighting him. McGonagall has replaced the House tables, but nobody is sitting according to House anymore: All are jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lays recovering in a corner along with Fred chatting to a happy George, and Grawp peers in through a smashed window, and people are throwing food into his laughing mouth.

  Ginny is two tables away; she is sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder. Neville is sitting with the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he eats, surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. I spot the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure whether or not they are supposed to be here, but nobody is paying them any attention. Everywhere you look you can see families reunited.

  I am sitting along with Ariana at the end of what used to be the Hufflepuff house table, our hand linked together, and her arm securely around me. We are mostly quiet exchanging and stealing kisses every once in a while. No words really need to be spoken between us. We have everything in the moment. All of our families are safe and sound, and we are here alive together.

  A strong feeling rises up inside me— not like the righteous fury of Arthur meant to hurt and consume any evil foe— but an all encompassing and light filled feeling that steals the breath from my lungs. Ariana pulls away slightly to look at me worriedly.

  “Are you okay? You’re not hurt too bad are you?” She asks beginning to look me over frantically. I shake my head in denial.

  “No, no, I’m fine… more than fine— better than fine really. I-I just realized sitting here how much we almost missed out on. How close we came to not seeing each other again, and now the rest of our lives are ahead of us. And then I understood that life doesn’t give you many chances to make the right choices, even if you are a little but of a blundering fool like me, so I have to take my chances.” I say licking my lips, suddenly very nervous.

  “I can’t imagine my life without you in it, and honestly I hope that that is never the case. I know we’re young and there are still many challenges to come— but I want to be there with you for them. Now— I’m not sure we’re ready to go too far yet, but I will tell you this. I promise to be there for you as long as you will have me, hopefully until we’re old and gray.” I say my nerves getting the best of me.

  Ariana is staring at me with dancing brown eyes that are brighter than the sun that is outside right now. I’m afraid about what she thinks, until she pulls me forward by the front of my shirt into one of the most passionate kisses that we’ve shared. When she releases me, I am breathless and slightly confused.

  “Jamie Pendragon you sure do know how to surprise me, and I could think of nothing better than to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter how slow we have to take it. You’re mine, and you have been mine since you woke up in that infirmary bed, nothing is going to change that.” Ariana vows, and this time I seal our lips together, feeling overjoyed at the fact that this beautiful, fierce, and intelligent woman loves me. I don’t think that there is anyone luckier than me in the whole world.

  The two of us cuddle up together again idly eating our food and sharing small pieces of conversation, but now nothing else really needs to be said, there is no time limit to any conversation that we need to have anymore.

  Suddenly a voice speaks from behind us.

  “It’s us,” Harry’s voice mutters from the air. “Will you come with us?”

  I glance at Ariana and see that there is a happy smile on her face. “Go on. You need to finish this.” She tells me with an understanding look before pushing me off the bench, so that I can be mostly swallowed up by the invisibility cloak and see Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

  The four of us leave the Great Hall, and I realize sadly that now that I’m away from Ariana, that I do really need a break from all the people.

  Great chunks are missing from the marble staircase, part of the balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains occur every few steps as we climb.

  Somewhere in the distance we can hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition:

 

We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one,

And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun!

 

  “Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn’t it?” says Ron, pushing open a door to let Harry, Hermione, and I through.

  Painstakingly Harry recounts what he had seen in the Pensieve about Snape loving Lily and always being on Dumbledore’s side, and what happened in the forest (Harry being the last and unmeaning Horcrux), and we have not even begun to express all our shock and amazement when at last we arrive at the place to which we have been walking, though none of us have mentioned our destination.

  The gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s study has been knocked aside; it stands lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and I wonder whether it will be able to distinguish passwords anymore.

  “Can we go up?” he asks the gargoyle.

  “Feel free,” groans the statue.

  We clamber over him and onto the spiral stone staircase that moves slowly upwards like an escalator. Harry pushes open the door at the top.

  An earsplitting noise makes Harry cry out in shock.

  It is applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts are giving Harry a standing ovation; they wave their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reach through their frames to grip each other’s hands; they dance up and down on the chairs in which they have been painted; Dilys Derwent sobs unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue is waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus calls, in his high, reedy voice, “And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our contribution not be forgotten!”

  But Harry has eyes only for the man who stands in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster’s chair. Tears are sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him creates a smile on Harry’s face.

  At last, Harry holds up his hands, and the portraits fall respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes and waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directs his words at Dumbledore, however.

  “The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” he begins, “I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where, but I’m not going to go looking for it again. Do you agree?”

  “My dear boy, I do,” says Dumbledore, while his fellow pictures look confused and curious. “A wise and courageous decision, but no less than I would have expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?”

  “No one,” says Harry, and Dumbledore nods his satisfaction.

  “I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present, though,” says Harry, and Dumbledore beams.

  “But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you pass it on!”

  “And then there’s this.”

  Harry holds up the Elder Wand, and Ron and Hermione look at it with a reverence that seems to make Harry nervous. I close my eyes wearily feeling a small pull to it, but having the weight of Excalibur still resting solidly on my back pulls me away from it. One item of mass power is enough for me I believe... I’m not sure that I could or should be trusted with two.

  “I don’t want it,” says Harry.

  “What?” says Ron loudly. “Are you mental?”

  “I know it’s powerful,” says Harry wearily. “But I was happier with mine. So . . .”

  He rummages in the pouch hanging around his neck, and pulls out the two halves of holly still just connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather.

  He lays the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk, touches it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and says, “Reparo.”

  As his wand reseals, red sparks fly out of its end. It looks like it succeeded and when Harry picks it up the large smile on his face is hard to defy. Harry and his wand belong together just like we do with ours.

  “I’m putting the Elder Wand,” Harry tells Dumbledore, who is watching him with enormous affection and admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.”

  Dumbledore nods. They smile at each other.

  “Are you sure?” says Ron. There is the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looks at the Elder Wand.

  “I think Harry’s right,” says Hermione quietly.

  “I agree some objects are too powerful for a person to hold.” I concur.

  “That wand’s more trouble than it’s worth,” says Harry. “And quite honestly,” he turns away from the painted portraits, glancing at the three of us, “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. I couldn’t agree any more with that.


	26. Seven Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Epilogue

 

Chapter 26- Seven Years Later

 

    

  “And all was at peace. There was no more fighting. No more struggling. No more fear. For Harry Potter had done it and the world was safe. You know, I couldn’t believe that all that adventure actually happened in only seven years. That goes to show you, that you can really change the world, as long as you try your best and stay true to yourself.” I say pushing back in the chair to set a slow rocking motion again, that had since long died out.

  “The end.” A voice says from the doorway, and I raise my head from my currently captivated audience to the newcomer in the doorway. Standing there in nothing more than simple jeans and a tee shirt is the most stunning person that I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “There’s still more to tell. He doesn’t know about how we got together, or all the aftermath of the war, and the messes we had to clean up.” I say. Ariana laughs and comes to sit on the footrest in front of me. Her has is still as bright blond as all those years ago that I’d met her. Her brown eyes are positively swimming with laughter and love, and for the life of me, I can’t understand how she has so much energy, when all I want to do is take a nap.

  “And that is a story for another time when we can torture him with how much his mums love him” Ariana says holding out her hands for the precious bundle tucked away safely in my arms, after having a good feed.

  Slowly I lift him away to displeased gurgles from him at being jostled from a nice warm place. He cries unhappily when it takes to long to be cuddled up to his other mum. I don’t ever think that I will be able to ever stop smiling when comparing the two of them.

  “Aw… Aidan… buddy, come on, I thought we were friends, a team against momma.” Ariana coos while giving our son her best pout, one that would make me break in a heartbeat.

  “He knows where his loyalties lie Ari, and until you manage to produce breakfast, lunch, dinner, and all the snacks in between, I’m afraid he’s on my side.” I say with a tired laugh. Ariana sticks her tongue out at me, and tickles his small newborn belly to get some squeel of laughter out of him.

  “I’ll just be the fun parent then until he can properly appreciate my awesomeness.” Ariana says firmly nodding her head. Aidan looks a lot like Ariana with his soft tuft of golden blond hair on the top of his head, but Ariana argues that he has more of my facial features, and that his eyes are a dead giveaway to who his parent really is.

  One of the first thing the we noticed when Aidan came into this world (after a painful delivery if you ask me) was that when he first opened his little eyes, his face all red from screaming his tiny head off, were his gray blue eyes. The same eyes that stare back at me from the mirror every day. Ariana and I were in love with him at first sight.

  “I think he will always appreciate your awesomeness.” I say resting my hands contentedly on my stomach.

  “The same goes for you too there Jamie. I have a feeling that this one is going to be a momma’s boy.” She says with a blinding smile, as she gets her finger trapped in Aidan’s iron grip. I can’t help but smile at the thought of a few years later a small head of blond hair trying to help me out in the shop, wanting to know how I make the brooms go so fast.

  Life has definitely changed and gone on since the war had ended at Hogwarts. Ariana and my brother Luka were the only two out of the six of us to graduate that year. Hermione couldn’t stand the fact of missing any schooling so she went back with Ginny the next year, like the good student she was. Harry and Ron decided that protecting people was more important so they got special acceptance to the Auror training program.

  Luka went straight into his work in the Ministry to start working his way up while being personally groomed by Kingsley. Me… well I floated aimlessly for a while sure that more schooling wasn’t it for me, and not sure exactly what I wanted to do with my life.

  It wasn’t until I stumbled upon the Quidditch Shop in Diagon Alley and got a job there, did I discover that I was actually fairly good at something. Brooms seemed to call to me, and making them was an act of love and dedication each time. I was taken on as an apprentice in no time. Now a days a fair amount of the brooms kids are zooming around on in Hogwarts are of my own creation.

  “Where did you go?” Ariana asks me, breaking me out of my reminiscing fog. I look up at her and grin.

  “Just thinking where we’ve all ended up love. You think I’d get over it, since its been so long…” I say trailing off.

  “I know what you mean, I work in that castle everyday, and sometimes it still gives me flashbacks to a time long ago where there wasn’t as much laughter and happiness as there is today… Neville and I talk about it sometimes.” Ariana says with a sad smile.

  Ariana decided to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps and she went to even more schooling about how to teach others, and now she has taken over McGonagall’s old post as Transfiguration professor, while McGonagall herself sits as Headmistress. In my opinion there couldn’t be a better fit for the school. Neville Longbottom also got a job as Herbology professor from Professor Sprout, who was positively giddy to have him take over.

  “How is Neville hanging in there? I talk to Luna when she, Ginny, and I get together to hang out, but she still has that aloofness about her like nothing affects her.” I say with a fond smile for my old friend. Ariana laughs and bounces Aidan somewhat in her arms getting him to laugh again.

  “Well… I believe frazzled would be the correct word for it. Little Alice is five now and her accidental magic has been making a lot of grand appearances. She accidentally turned one of his Venonmus Tentaculas into a puppy so that she could play with it. Little Frankie has taken to trying to get that toy broom you gave him for his birthday for a flight out the window. And, baby Lysander is doing what all one-year-olds do best, making a mess.” Ariana explains kissing Aidan’s little chubby cheek, much to his delight.

  “Well it sounds like nothing the pair of them can’t handle. I really think that fighting together brought the pair of them together.” I say thinking about Neville and Luna and the chemistry that was between the two of them since around fifth year.

  “Agreed. But as lovely as this lazy Sunday in has been, we unfortunately have a dinner date to attend.” Ariana says getting to her feet with a groan. She sticks out a hand to help me up, and then draws me into her for a kiss. Aidan giggles and squeals being squished between his mothers.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry! We forgot you didn’t we?” I say feigning shock before leaning down and delivering kisses all over my son, to his great joy. When I pull back with a smile Ariana does the same.

  “This one is totally a cuddler like you Jame.” Ariana says walking with Aidan out of the nursery and into our room, where she lays him gently in the middle of our bed, with pillows on either side of him just to be safe.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I deny, as I move to the closet to pick out something simple to wear. “Besides if we don’t get going soon we’re going to be murdered since we promised to be there.”

  A quick change into jeans and a long sleeve shirt later, I grab the diaper bag from the alcove by the front door, and Ariana comes in with Aidan tucked in one arm, and his favorite knit badger in the other. He liked the one I made for Ariana all those years ago, that I had to make him another one, for his mother wouldn’t part with hers for the life of her.

  “Okay I think we’re ready— though are we ever really ready for dinner with your family?” Ariana asks looking slightly concerned.

  “Come on, this is the first time they’ll all see Aidan together— it will be mildly traumatizing, and I’m sure that there will be at least one explosion with the Kings of Mischief and the Terror Quads.” I say half jokingly, yet totally serious.

  Ariana groans softly but there’s a grin on her face.

  “I guess I knew what I was getting into when I married you.” She says.

  “Indeed you did Dumbledore, indeed you did.” I say, grabbing the stuffed badger and shoving it into the diaper bag, then taking her free hand in mine. We approach our fireplace, and I take down the bag of green floo powder from the mantle and hold it out to her.

  “You or me?” I ask. Ariana gestures for me to go ahead of her and after taking a pinch of the powder from her, I make a face at her.

  “Wimp.” I say not really meaning it. “The Burrow!”

  I throw the floor powder down on the ground and with a roar of green flames, I am stepping out of my family home’s fireplace coughing slightly.

  I’m surprised to find myself entering a calm and relatively empty living room. The only other occupants inside it are my father sitting next to Luka and Gabrielle on the couch as he holds a happy baby in his arms. Angelina is seated in my father’s chair her head leaned back and her eyes closer. She looks worse than I feel.

  Upon seeing me little Daniel Pendragon, three months old, with dirty blond hair and bright blue almost cerulean eyes, squeals. I look up from him and see happy elated faces of Dad, Luka, and Gabrielle at the sight of me. “Where is he?” Dad asks, his eyes shining with so much joy and happiness.

  I take another step away from the fireplace as Ariana appears out of the grate holding a surprised and slightly frightened Aidan. “First time is always the worst.” Ariana comments, putting Aidan’s head to her chest and humming softly trying to calm him before the tears start to fall.

  The last thing we need today is a crying baby to set all the rest of them off. Looking at the three on the cough for permission first, I scoop up my nephew in my arms, marveling at what a beautiful baby Daniel is, the Veela in him making an appearance even at this age. It was a long time coming but Luka and his ‘pen-pal’ Gabrielle finally got together and married and had this little guy quite quickly.

  It still brings tears to my eyes when I think how happy our father would have been to be the namesake of this precious little boy. Daniel grabs some of my hair and makes some gurgling and cooing noises to show his happiness at seeing me again. Since his birth I have been making an effort to be at my brother’s house more and see little Daniel, for family is important.

  “Well I’ll be— look at this little guy.” Dad’s voice catches my attention, and I look up to see Ariana passing Aidan into his grandfather’s arms. The look of wonder in his eye rivals that of learning a new fact about how the muggle world and all their inventions work.

  Aidan stares up at his grandfather, not knowing who he is, but with a big smile on his face. I grin at Ariana, and see the proud look on her face. Yeah we got a good one didn’t we?

  “He’s beautiful.” Gabrielle says having got up with Luka to see the newest addition to the family.

  “Thank you.” Ariana and I say at the same time, practically overflowing with pride at our son.

  “You did good Jamie.” Luka whispers to me from his spot next to me. My brother is now officially a good four inches taller than me at 5’11”, but he’s still the same boy to me that I grew up with dreaming of Hogwarts and all its wonders that were in store for us.

  “Thanks, I couldn’t have done it without Ariana.” I say, smiling at my wife as she talks excitedly with Dad and Gabrielle about Aidan, who looks as pleased as a pygmy puff with all the attention that he’s getting.

  “We both did good I think.” I say looking down at Daniel again, and tickling his tummy to get a squeal out of him. Luka is positively beaming at us, and I know that he’s proud to have a family of his own to take care of and love. I think that what we both really wanted in the end, a place and people of our own to call home.

  Boy did we get that…

  The peacefulness starts to get louder with the sound of many approaching feet. Angelina startles from the chair with a displeased groan.

  “You’re here, prepare for the invasion.” She says and I can see the dark smudges under her eyes and the weariness about her.

  Suddenly the back door opens into the living room, and people pour inside. First through is Fred (healthy as a horse) barreling into the room trailing mud, holding beneath his arms two darker colored toddlers with wavy reddish brown hair and sparkling brown eyes. The boys are identical and giggling manically with their father. Honestly Fabian and Gideon are going to grow up just like their father and uncle, for they’ve already starting the identity switching even at the young age of one.

  Next through the door is a sullen looking Ron with mud streaked all over his face, and a giggling but slightly apologetic Hermione hurrying after him. Then comes Harry holding the hand of a skipping little Victorie, smiling up at him, like he just hung the stars for her. Victorie with a head of light blond hair is Bill and Fleur’s oldest at six being born a year to the day after the final battle.

  Her birthdays are always a little interesting with them being on the anniversary and all.

  Then there is Ginny, Bill, and Fleur holding a trio of giggling kids. Fleur is holding little Dominique who is four, trying to untangle her wild strawberry blond hair, while she reaches for her brother. Louis the cheery blond one year old is kicking his little muddy feet at his sister, trying to fend her off while in his father’s arms.

  Ginny is laughing at something that Bill said while cradling her son James Sirius Potter, who actually looks worn out for once and she smooths back his reddish brown wild hair while he rests on her shoulder. I still can’t believe that it’s been year since that little terror was born. Almost everyone agrees that it was a mistake to name him after two Marauders.

  Next come Percy and his wife Audrey with their little girls Molly and Lucy. Mum cried for what seemed like hours after she found out that Percy named his first child after her. Unlike everyone who had come in so far, the four of them are completely mud free, sparing the three and two year olds the need for a bath later.

  Last to troop in are George with a kid in each arm, and Alicia shoving him slightly into the house. At the sight of her husband and kids Angelina moves forward and plucks a mud covered little boy out of George’s arm.

  “What did you do? Roll them in the mud so that they would be completely covered? Lee, you’re a mess. There’s no way Grandma will let you in her kitchen now.” Angelina fusses, trying to wipe some of the mud off the dark skinned little boy with bright brown eyes, and curly reddish brown hair.

  “Lighten up Ange, it’s just a little mud! Besides Roxie just loved it, didn’t you sweetie?” George asks tickling the belly of the little girl who looked nearly identical to her brother just with longer hair.

  “Yes!” She squeals showing off her vocabulary. Angelina sighs as that sets off Lee crying yes as well.

  “I should probably see to my own little trouble makers… wonder where Fred’s gone off to…” Alicia says glancing around the room looking for any sign of her family.

  “Best bet is the kitchen.” I say, and Alicia smiles at me brightly before going to look for them.

  “Hey there Jame! Almost didn’t see you there? Is this the newest addition to the mightiest clan around?” George asks excitedly as he approaches his dad who is still holding a happy Aidan in his arms.

  “Wow, he looks exactly like Ariana, except for the eyes.” George says with a wide grin. “Good going tiger.”

  He lightly bumps Ariana’s arm and she turns a nice shade of scarlet.

  “Leave her alone George. You’ll have more time to torment the new family later, first we have to clean all this mud up before it looks like a barn in here and Molly loses it on us.” Angelina says leading the way up the stairs after the majority of muddy parents and kids.

  I return my attention back on the small gathering of clean people in front of me. Aidan catches my eye and makes a happy gurgling squeal reaching his hand out for me. Luka smiles at me and takes Daniel back from me, so that Aidan can be placed into my arms. I didn’t realize how much I missed the little guy until he’s resting comfortably again, and giving me his signature gummy smile.

  “Is that my newest grandson?” Mum’s voice floats from the kitchen doorway. I look up to see a scolded Fred carrying one of the twins with Alicia following with the other up the stairs to wash off.

  Mum has gotten older, but in no way has she lost her ability to command a room and probably and army, since an army of family is what she has.

  “Molly meet Aidan Brian Pendragon, your grandson.” Ariana says with a huge smile on her face, pleased that we got to honor her grandfather in a way. We know that Harry is set on using Albus as a name if he has another son, so we went with Brian for him.

  Mum rushes forward and carefully takes Aidan from my arms to stare down at the newest addition to the family that has already grown by twelve people.

  “He’s just precious.” She says as Aidan gurgles at the finger she runs across his belly. “I’ll finish dinner with this handsome man and the rest of you can make yourselves useful by setting up the tables in the yard. We have a growing family to feed you know.” Mum says making her way back into the kitchen.

  I swear that I can hear something about making Ron and Hermione get to it soon, and I look at the rest of the bemused people in the living room with me.

  “I don’t think we’re ever going to see him again.” Ariana says likely. Dad claps a hand onto Ariana’s shoulder.

  “Knowing Molly— no.” He says with a laugh before leading the troupe of us outside and to the shed where all the extra tables are set. Gabrielle takes hold of Daniel so that the rest of us can set the tables into a long line, and march the assorted mismatched chairs to circle around them.

  Soon the table is set with placemats and dishes, and the loud rabble of our family pushes back out into the yard with clean little children and in Fred and George’s case clean adults. Dishes of food fly out from the kitchen with Mum behind them, shooting them to their proper places at the table. In her other arm sitting casually and happily is Aidan.

  Dinner is a loud happy affair, with jars of fairy lights hanging overhead when we start to lose light. Aidan is passed around to all of the family members. He is cooed at and played with (especially by Hermione to Ron’s chagrin), until he gets tired of being poked and prodded by people he doesn’t know, and start crying for food and comfort.

  Quickly Aidan is passed back around the table to us, and discretely as I can I shift in my seat so that I can allow my baby to nurse without scarring the big bad boys of the table, namely all my brothers and father. Aidan sighs happily now that he’s being fed, and with someone warm and comfortable again.

  Ariana scoots her chair closer to us so that I can lean into her slightly. The look on Ariana’s face as she gazes down at Aidan is full of love and wonder. Sometimes I wish that I could know what is going through her head. Is she as awed at the life that we have gained as well?

  I link my hand that isn’t cradling our son and link my fingers with Ariana’s to place a kiss on her hand.

  “You don’t know how lucky I feel…” I murmur.

  “Not as lucky as I am Pendragon… not even close.” Ariana says back, and as I glance out at my family, I realize that this is where I want to be. This is what I always wanted.

 

THE END


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